From the heavy bough of the copper beech I look down over the town then pull my focus closer across the park to the immediate waving grass. Beneath me is a man in a feathered top hat playing a violin. I notice that each sway of my bough connects to a lilt in his rhythm. I wonder for a while, whilst munching on an apple, if his violin is actually moving my tree. Such is the case when an idea converts into a belief - the evidence begins to mount. I look up to the rippling bronze crown and see that’s movements are too intricate and varied to capture. Nevertheless one leaf catches my eye- it is much lighter than the others, a pale gold and it moves less often in the spring breeze but more dramatically. One more gum piercing crunch on the apple reveals something- for the leaf shakes violently to the left. Then with a febrile awe I notice that as I chew on my mouthful the leaf moves to the same rhythm and intensity. I stop and it stops. I start again and it starts again. I shake my head in disbelief and as I do so the violinist stumbles on his feet, the violin falls to the floor with a deathly shriek the tree branch I am sitting on comes crashing to the ground. And its all in a day's work on Schizoid Street.