Pruning sycamores

For the first time in London I don’t mind the sound of the chainsaw.

Next door was having its sycamores pruned. I didn’t notice at first as the team started with hand saws. And if was only when I looked up from my desk and gazed out the window did I realize it was happening.

I do so like the sight of people climbing trees.

Better yet, the sight of large branches being piled up outside our front door, ready for chipping.

There are advantages to having a three storey glass window at the front of your house; you see everything.

And for once it wasn’t the sight of me creeping down in my pjs with a large basket of laundry too early in the morning that caused amusement from out in the street. It was my yelp of delight as I looked out.

Branches. Ready to be chipped.

I twinkled out pretending to be gardening and just casually engaged the tree surgeons in conversation.

Where were they going to chip the branches?

Where were they taking them? Any chance I could save them the transport and take them myself?

Shameless. But this London garden – ostensibly a woodland one – needs mulch.

And here it was on my doorstep.  So as I watched the progress of the tree lopping, I stood like a coiled spring in the front garden ready with my bags for the wood chip.  They were such kind people, they even helped drag them to the gate.  Neighbourly.

I wish they were going to take a lunch break and let me empty their entire van of the lovely chipped trees. But they were on the clock, so I only managed about a cubic metre.  Not enough. There is never enough. But it’s a start.