pleep eek murrr.THACK. Thick. Thlack. The solipsism of my garden spring song bubbled by the fond muffle of the motorway. All at once assaulted by a familiar and dreaded percussion. I want to wail. Oh why must you do that next-door. Out-door! With such neat regularity. Surely you only did it yesterday, how fast do those rude ungues grow? Ungenerous, ignoble even I know. I do try to temper my offence at this innocent al fresco personal husbandry. I do try to forgive each blunt trim. Perhaps it's the pointed routine or the thick clack and clip chop that grates. I imagine a horny yellow off-cut sailing over the fence to lodge itself in the soft folds of my rocket. From whence it will surely find a way to hide in my side salad.