Magazine - Climate Justice

Dedicated to Honey Locust

by Christopher Jacobs

Margaret replaced her life of hermetic reclusion for eccentric extroversion after surviving a brain tumour about a decade ago. Having a plethora of free time and unfiltered opinions, she was the first neighbour to complain about our Honey Locust tree.

Margaret replaced her life of hermetic reclusion for eccentric extroversion after surviving a brain tumour about a decade ago. Having a plethora of free time and unfiltered opinions, she was the first neighbour to complain about our Honey Locust tree.

“The branches and leaves and twigs fall onto the street!” She’d exclaim. “Into my garden! You should trim the branches, cut them down.” Her voice was loud, but it returned no echo. Hiring someone to trim the branches would’ve cost hundreds considering its size; I explained that I would undertake the task once the weather improves. Thankfully, we live in a country where the weather never improves.


My grandmother planted this tree on the day I was born. I assume my parents supported its conception since the benefits outweighed the problems: fresh oxygen, a natural carbon dioxide dampener, substantial shade and privacy, a cool hangout space for birds and bugs, a metaphorical symbol for their first child, and overall, a great place to hang a birdfeeder.

Margaret’s vocalisation of her qualms dampened over the few months until an envelope flew through our door. In hindsight, Postman Pat must’ve ruined many lives. It wasn’t Margaret but our other neighbours next door at 74 who reported the tree to some bureaucratic authoritarian property police – I think they’re called solicitors. Apparently, the roots of our tree cracked and disrupted the foundations of their council house and they managed to materialise proof. We were coerced into removing the tree otherwise we would face financial inconveniences which would cause my parents to quiver in their sleep. My family could only kowtow to such legal blackmail whereas I could only sit there and watch. Not once did our neighbours have the decency to consult us face to face about this. This is the true British way.


2nd November 2019

I woke to the sound of a weeping tree and a tireless chainsaw. Helplessness. Rage. Let the houses crack and the walls bleed! Let the bleached sands taint the wastelands of our orderly gardens. Burn the charity shops. Kill the grass, the fence, the worm meal. Uproot the wretched tendrils. Pour poison onto the stump to carve false warmth into our homes. Steal the timber, the firewood; we’ll pay you to steal! We’ll pay you to make molten hail scorch our placid beliefs. Peer pressure, you saint, for without you God forbid a civil society be rational. Environmental protestors hang around parliament whilst demons murder what they claim to protect. Hypocrites! Of course, the most effective way to deter seal clubbing is to write to your local MP, the modern-day superhero, your communal saint, who uses bureaucracy as their shield and green-party consumerism as their sword. Arm the refugees, arm the homeless, arm the armless. Give them 12 gauges and crypto. Have Tesla resurrect Nikola so all far-left extremists can sleep easy at night knowing that cows who eat the wrong shade of grass will be castrated electrically. Abort children, remain vegan and clean. No sooner would I like to see this world go up in flames. Cut down in her prime, before she can blossom, my Honey Locust, too beautiful for this green and grey hell.


Some people must be so sapped of meaning that they’re willing to spend their shallow lives giving meaning to meaningless affairs, just like me, writing this non-fictional nonsense, and the readers who, after reading this, feels the slightest sense of affirmation, consolidation and enlightenment. God forbid any jesters in your court.

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