Came back to face the grim lament "you should have mowed before we left". The thing was, I had. You just couldn't tell from the jungle that greeted us on return.

(It was a similar refrain regarding cleaning the bathroom and vacuuming but let's leave those sensitive issues alone.)

Nothing sums up the state of climate change better, compared to this time last year, than the state of the backyard buffalo.

Twelve months ago, it was more a case of giving the yard a quick "fan" with the mower, things were so stubbled.

Return this week and it looks like the chin is not the only place sporting a raging iso beard. The lawn's gone mad.

Last year we were on restrictions, dutifully bucketing water from the shower and thinking a mow wouldn't be an issue for probably eternity.

This year we've got La Nina back in town, dripping with Indian Ocean dipole and the word 'verdant' is springing out from every crack. You only have to get down to the Newcastle Grain Terminal to witness the turnaround in fortunes.

I certainly was contemplating quite the harvest when I got back to my domestic facility.

Like the lawn, the veggie patch had had an awakening too.

In that Day of the Triffids-style agriculture familiar to those who let things get away when they get away, we had another situation.

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All those random tomato plants that had been threatening to produce duly came good in our absence, raising questions about our relevance to the farming process.

The basil had bolted, passion was fruiting and something had really put a rocket up the rocket.

Now we're relishing the opportunity to convert that yield into relish or chutney. Even passata has been mentioned, along with a few "tch tches" about the need for veggie micro-management. Like mozzies and spiders, all you obviously need is heat, water and a good holiday. Oh Mother Nature - how great thou art.

But as any psychologist will tell you, our relationship with Mother is complex and subconsciously there is an urge to contain. Or in this case mow.

The sequoia-like blades that greeted us upon return had me concerned the old four-stroke may struggle. They only seem to have one speed - steady, and this was crying out for a chainsaw.

Plus, the ever present chance of rain in these new normal humid sticky conditions means you have to grab your chance - typically just on dusk judging by the peel of the suburban soundscape.

Like traffic over our borders and into our airports, restaurants, bars, stadiums and other places of worship, life is returning.

And seasoned mowing warriors know it's time to tear in. Socially responsible of course. And by that I mean, not on a Sunday morning if humanly possible. Gotta think of the neighbours.