I try not to look out my kitchen window. The sight which once gave pleasure now pains me. It is that of Virginia Woolf’s tree under whose shade she once sat in her garden. It was a sycamore with a full crown. Now it is decapitated, every last limb amputated.
The man who did it said it was done by the book. Not by one of hers. By the council’s book of conservation.
This must seem trivial to you, that the damage done to Virginia Woolf’s tree should give continual offence if I forget, as often I do, to keep my eyes down. There are bigger things than an affront to sensibility for you to concern yourself with. The injury done is no more than from the accepted practice of tree deformation by the insensible who think the ensuing shootings out from the stumps they’ve presumed to compel the tree to make an improvement to its form. Their satisfaction at making a tree conform to their impoverished sense of aesthetics might amuse if I didn’t live as a result of it with the sight of Virginia Woolf’s now permanently disfigured tree.
[This is a letter written to The Informer. I’m less inclined to blog about John, reserving what I’ve to say to my diary and epistle to him he asked me to write for him to read on the train back to prison. Because he surprised me by coming last Saturday, it wasn’t printed out. I feel fine with him and afterwards for that day before getting back to normal but the discrepancy in desire is patent and perhaps a problem. I’d like to ask somebody’s advice about it but so far haven’t.]