Matthew and his crew are butchering the hedges. I feel there ought to be a gentler way of preventing the garden turning into a wilderness of thorns but I don't know what it is- so petrol must be burned and the rural peace shattered by the rattle and hum of power tools. Perhaps in the far future we'll be able to talk to our plants and suggest they grow in such and such a way and they'll do as we ask.
One set of hedges has been over-run with brambles. It won't do. But I rather regret the blackberries I won't be harvesting in the Autumn.
I'm quite good at editing the ambient soundscape- and I don't need to notice the surpassingly awful noise that Matthew's making if I don't want to. I'm hearing it now because I'm writing about it, but when I'm done I'll tell my brain to ignore it.