All I wanted to do was watch the World Cup matches on my telly. That's all a simple groundsman was asking. But every spare second I found in my quaint, rugged stone cottage beside the intimidating baronial estate was spent in endless toil. There was the lawn, sure. And the owner's incessant requests for maintenance up at the big house, despite the fact that I'd told her numerous times that I had an electrician and a plumber on speed dial. "I don't trust them," the lady laird would always say. Flattering, sure. I appreciated the high praise she so often heaped upon me. But I would have appreciated a raise or some time off a good deal more.
One night before bed I ran across a possible solution. After ten minutes doomscrolling about how Scotland was going to get crushed in the Cup, I found it! A hyper-specific, targeted ad suggesting I employ the skills of the Chorebot Corporation. It looked like one of those slick American businesses, the type I rarely trusted. But the video of the man sipping a dram on the lawn while his Chorebot mower skilfully navigated the grass within a hedge maze was simply too enticing. Perhaps against my better judgement, I tapped "Buy Now."
Three days later a van showed up with an enormous cardboard box. They dumped it on my doorstep and I stared at it in wonder and excitement. The blasted thing had a hundred pieces to assemble. The QR code for the installation video didn't work, and no one on YouTube had any installation videos, just a few meagre review ones. But luckily I'm extremely handy. I had the Chorebot together in no time. Then came the magic.
Miraculously, the bloody thing worked first try. No mapping needed at all! I had seen these machines before, but they always worked on simple, small lawns. Not the front lawn of a grand estate. But this one routed around the gardens, trees, summerhouse, and garden furniture effortlessly. And it left a beautiful chequered pattern that, if I'm being honest, surpassed even what I could accomplish.
Rainy Scotland grows grass alarmingly quickly. So not two days after my first mow, I turned on the Chorebot and watched it proudly hum along down the front lawn. I grinned. "Old Finlay, you're a clever one," I thought to myself. Then I did something I'd never had the time to do: I opened the door to my cottage, slid off my boots, and curled up on the sofa. I switched on the telly and watched a major world power predictably crush a small country in the World Cup. It was glorious.
About an hour later, my mobile began ringing. Caller ID showed "Laird" and my stomach sank. A bit of anger kicked in. "She's probably asking why I'm not out there mowing. Thinks that if she doesn't see a warm body on a mower, the work isn't getting done." I pressed the green answer button and was met by a surprisingly pleasant voice.
"Finlay? Marvellous contraption out there. I saw one of those things pop up on my Instagram the other day and was meaning to ask you about it. But why did you pay for it out of your own pocket?"
"Erm… well, I wasn't sure you'd approve something so untested, so I…"
"I just bought three more," she interrupted. "I want you to use them on the back half of the estate. There's also a hedge-trimmer drone I put in. Think you can get them all going?"
"What?! Oh — aye, ma'am!" My heart leapt. At this rate, I'd be able to catch half the games, and not a penny out of my own pocket!
It took me about a day to get the rest of the Chorebots set up. The hedge trimmer was a little precarious, not to mention a wee bit scary with a live blade buzzing beside my head. But they all seemed to work brilliantly after some tuning.
The automation really was remarkable. Half my week was freed up. Though I did feel bad about the lad down the road who kept asking to help me out at the weekends. Turns out I didn't need him anymore.
But my dream of idle leisure, sadly, was not as great as I'd hoped. One of the Chorebots would, randomly, decide to start mowing the English flower garden. Wiped out half the laird's prize violet delphiniums. She forgave it once, but after another mower knocked the balls out of place in a paused but quite important game of croquet, she told me I needed to be out there to watch the blasted things more closely.
No bother, though. I could quite easily set up my garden chair beside the English gardens, the lawn games, and any other obstacles. Occasionally I'd have to correct them before they launched another out-of-control rampage on the estate.
Before month's end, the laird asked me to install the new indoor Chorebots in the house. Now these things made me nervous. A lawnmower, sure. But an indoor sweeper rummaging through a 300-year-old house full of antiques? The chances of a catastrophic collision were high. Besides, why was this my department? The indoor staff could order, assemble, and manage these things themselves. What business does a groundsman have indoors?
But alas, her faith in old Finlay was unbounded. I got the things working, mostly. Took me a whole week to get them all sorted: the floor scrubber, the laundry folder, the dust drone. (How on earth did the Chorebot Corporation find the time to invent and build all this?) Anyway, we lost two vases and the frame off a mediocre painting. The sweeper also chased down the Gordon Setter after mistaking it for a runaway black rug. I had to learn a bit of programming and make a few support calls to get it sorted.
After a while, though, I was feeling rather proud of myself. No major mishaps — though I did spend about a day of every week making sure they were all still running efficiently, and that their software was up to date. Not bad. That was, until the laird decided she wanted to install a few more at the wedding venue.
"Here we go again," I thought. Same setup, so by this point I was pretty familiar with it all. But in the back of my mind, I kept wondering, "Am I really a groundsman anymore?" How on earth was I going to manage all these on top of my other responsibilities? Mind you, there were no Chorebots for some of the other tasks — like keeping the lawnmower blades sharp or cleaning out the filters on the sweepers. Some of the indoor stuff I'd managed to train the staff on, but it was still quite common for me to get a panicked call asking why something wasn't working, and I'd have to play tech support.
One night, I was absolutely exhausted. Not physically — I did far less physical labour than I once did. But mentally. Every moment, I was on edge that I'd get another phone call or app notification telling me one of the Chorebots was malfunctioning. Or I'd need to remember to go and check on their progress. I could barely watch the telly. I kept checking my blasted phone the whole time, monitoring everything, then switching over to check my socials. Halfway through an exciting match I was barely paying attention to, the phone rang. The screen showed the now all-too-common name: "Laird."
"Finlay, I have a proposition," she said. "You've done such a wonderful job with these new contraptions. I wonder if you'd be interested in earning a bit of extra money? You remember the Drummonds? You mowed their estate last year in the groundsman's stead when he was off with the flu. Well, I was telling them all about the Chorebots, and they'd love some help setting them up. Would you be up for it? It pays £500 a month."
I hit the mute button. I sighed, then toggled it off. "Just the one request," I told her.
"Of course — and what's that?"
"May I request a title change? I'm no longer a groundsman. I'm a Chorebot specialist."