On Monday the tree removal service cut down the lightning damaged pine behind the house. The tree had grown there for around 85 years and within four hours it was gone, the remains hauled away, except for a pile of woodchips beside a stump.

As if that wasn't sad enough, there was the bill to consider. It made me wonder, not for the first time, if I'm in the wrong field. I guess people need trees removed more than they need books.

To be fair, I'm afraid of heights. I get dizzy on the second rung of a ladder. Which isn't as daft as it sounds, considering how uncoordinated I am. I'm not fond of power tools either, so climbing up a 90 foot tree with a chain saw might prove a bit difficult.

Writing may not pay as much as cutting down trees but a slip of the mouse isn't going to cost me any fingers, the monitor probably won't topple off the desk in the wrong direction, nor am I likely to fall out of my chair and plummet to my death.

Maybe one of the reasons writing pays so badly is that compared to a lot of jobs it's easy.

As for the pine, I never thought much about it when it was there. We're surrounded by trees. But now, every time I look out the window, I'm surprised at the way the light falls across the yard where it never did before.