It happened once every year, in the stark, cold light of an early January weekend, when the inhabitants of the city emerged from their homes carrying their spent Christmas trees to be disposed of. Often they are borne aloft by the men, or the women; the children tagging along behind. Others might be pulled by teenagers on small carts, or squeezed into wheeled shoppers and bumped along haphazardly by young couples.

The trees are carried towards the river, filtering in from the residential streets to the network of bridges in the centre of the town. There, in civilised and neighbourly…

Bruce Adams

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