I watched Jenny’s Wedding today. Nothing special, really. Apart from the fact that it’s about a lesbian couple, it’s just another romcom spiced with a pinch of light drama. But there was one thing there that made me think. The protagonist’s sister, played by Grace Gummer, realises that the grass in front of her house is always dead, and then she has an epiphany: “Happy people do not have dead grass.” It ends badly for her husband (not that I pity him—he was rather obnoxious). The problem is that I hate grass. Not in general, as there is nothing more pleasant than a stroll on the meadow in summer, but the lawn in front of the house is the essence of artificiality. I hate Saturday gymnastics with a lawnmower and the endless fight with moss and so-called weeds. When I lived in a house with a lawn, I envied my neighbour’s elegantly tiled front yard. But does this make me a bad person, a social outcast, or a less desirable life partner? I’m a city dweller, that’s all. Suburbs are not for me.