The mulberry itself has now been encircled by a grim strapping of black metal fence as though it were making plans to escape, and one could hardly blame it, in view of the fate of its neighbours. 'For its own protection', would be the explanation one imagines, but no-one seems to have considered that this tree has survived the attentions of small, scabby-kneed urchins for probably 300 years, urchins who while not equipped with the latest technological aids (such as Lumberjack Barbie, or the 'My First Chainsaw' set) have nevertheless possessed the enquiring minds, energetic constitutions, pocket knives and destructive propensities so dreaded by their guardians.

As far as I am aware, no consultations have taken place about these depredations and encirclings; innovations which threaten the character of a beloved institution. Ignorant as I am, I do not even know which of the various Councils might think itself in control here, let alone which department, officer to subcommittee approved such vandalism. A creeping suburbanisation, a malign and philistine over-protectiveness, a loathsome respectability 'gone mad' attacks our treasured communal spaces with crocheted squares and hair curlers, leaving us fenced off from our own heritage. Inch by inch, ancient beauty and accustomed freedom are being taken from us and replaced (oh pinnacle of twee-ness) by a tiny mock-clock, a mere clockery in a glass box outside the assertive Garden Street entrance which professes to detail the hour at which the gates will be shut. No longer the accustomed 'at dusk', but some Municipal time-keeping arrangement decreed by a cabal of rabid bourgeoisie.
I protest.
And another thing..... Pete Pick