  He likes the way he cuts the lawn. In even stripes of opposing shades of green. No weeds to be found here. Only the lush cropped stalks of grass. He is proud of the fact his is the only garden on the whole street to have such a perfect slice of botanical heaven. Well, not that you could call it a street, he thinks, more a cul-de-sac, but it was called a street.
Edgware Street. A fitting name for a suburban development on the edge of town. There's only a small turning circle at the end of the street. You have to make a difficult manoeuvre if you come down here by mistake. Use someone else’s driveway. The whole thing made more difficult by his gates.
He always keeps them closed. Even when he has his car on the road. He doesn't like the idea of someone else in his drive. What if they catch the edge of his lawn in their reversing? So, he keeps them closed. He himself, only has a small car.
He always gives his lawn a wide berth as he leaves his garage. His car is kept spotless. Always with a least three quarters of a tank full of petrol. He doesn't like it to go any lower than that. Not that he drives much anymore. Just to the shops and back.
And once a month, best clothes on, to put flowers on his mother's grave. He keeps roses in the front garden as well. He's not sure if he truly likes roses. Certainly not as much as a well laid lawn. But they were here when he took over the house. His mother's house.
His mother's roses. He could not remove them. Still he keeps them well pruned, cut back so only one or two buds appear each year. Dutifully he always cuts the first flower for his mother, the rest he leaves till it is time to prune again. Sometimes, when a rose is nearly over, the petals fall on his lawn. A scattering of colour in the unending green.
He picks each one up, rather than mowing over them, like the rest of the street. Not all the petals are gathered that way, some will get trampled into the grass causing damage. He always looks forward to the days he mows the lawn. The peace and calm of simple motions. Up and down. Clipping the edge.
Raking up. Inspecting for signs of disease. Yes, he thinks, a well kept lawn is better than a rose. A sign of a well presented person. A first impression well made. For all the people that pass by his gates.
Each night and each morning, he inspects the lawn, makes sure that the gates are shut properly, if the rose petals are ready to fall. 
