I fancy that if I nibble at my hedge clacksnapsnap with an old pair of wooden handled shears it will appreciate the gesture and grow strong and tall and dense. Rather that than gnaw arbitrarily at it's belly with mechanical teeth. Theres shiny ivy in his skirts. I'm reluctant to trim at it but I hazard a snip here and there to save me tripping when I get in late. It's the only thing between me and yer man next door. We stop and chat like, shifting the weight of tesco bags and rakes from one hand to the other "aye, aye. aye ah know sure" and it's not like we don't have a laugh. And you can tell in another life he opened his curtains and minded the rubble in his yard. But we're watching our hedge now. And one summer soon there'll be no more need for aye ah know's. As I work my way around him, tickle it's girth and tidy his feet I imagine Eamonn peering from behind those curtains of his he never opens when he hears the snipping start. Chewing anxiously on the corner of his bottom lip as I near the top 'don't take anything off the height' like a woman might say to a girl at the hairdressers 'leave the length will you love'. The street whirrs and buzzes with lush sunday orchestration. Mmmurrr, ghizzzzzzzz, whrooom whroommmmm whroom. And I come in with the percussion. Clack Clack snapsnapsnip Clack.