Are there any Canadians present? There are? Oh, dear. You're not going to like this next post.

I have a maple tree in my front yard. Now, I'm sure that in it's native land it is a wonderful thing, and I know it is the Canadian national symbol - but what the hell is this abomination doing here? It drops it's seed pods all over my lawn which go brown and are like miniature caltrops. As I surveyed my lush greenery this morning, I weighed the options - rake or no rake? I prefer no rake as I am a lazy bastard. I figured I'd just mow over the little brown balls of death, they would be chopped to pieces by the mower bland and deftly deposited into the catcher.

Sadly, Mr Victa had not considered that someone would do anything as stupid as mow over rock hard carapaces, and instead of throwing the things into my catcher, the mower whipped them every which way. At speed. I'm not sure who was more nervous about the prospect of being branded with one - me or the postie riding past as my petrol powered grenade launcher bounced maple seeds off his helmet like an automatic ball server on crack.

OK, I'm exaggerating a little. It missed him by a couple of feet, easy.

I can't wait for winter, when the bastard will shed it's leaves and turn my lawn into a rotting, brown, tribute to Canada. Joy.