Every three years, the surgeons come to our street and operate on the plane trees. Their nonchalance is remarkable. First, they loop ropes over the highest branches that they estimate will bear their weight, then they swing upwards, bare-legged in shorts and boots, chainsaws dangling from their waistbands, casually hollering to each other as if they were Tarzans, before they press their noisy tools into life and the cutting begins. They are all young men – English, so far as I can tell – and it may be that some of them like to show off. At any rate, they’re quick and efficient. The branches come crashing to the ground, to be fed by other young men into a whirring machine that reduces them to woodchips. An older man with a broom sweeps up the twigs and the sawdust. The surgeons load their vans and move on.

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