My sister's front garden ... clearcut

What a bastard the wind can be, blowing hither and thither, and knocking your swing tree over!!

Eighty-five years that cherry tree was stood in my sister's front garden. She knows that for sure, because fifteen years ago an old man knocked on her door and asked if he could come inside. He'd been born there. He was ninety. He remembered his Mum putting the tree in, promising cherries in seven years. AND she counted the rings.

It's not borne fruit for years, but it's bloomed prettily, and a we've all swung high from time to time.

And now it's down ... blown over in a storm, and then butted by a man with a chain saw. The swing's splayed out across the ground.

That's my sister, Liz, looking coyly from beneath the low slung brim of her toque. She's looking coy cos she knows The Kipper'll take the whole mess off her hands.

There's a few righteous fires, in my sister's front garden.