My bed was cold when I got into it last night so I pulled my duvet tightly round me and settled down to go to sleep. I hadn’t closed my blind but I didn’t want to leave my slowly-warming bed to close it, so I lay and looked out at the very familiar scene.

It was a blustery night, probably the first since the seasons changed. I doubt if I would’ve noticed this if it weren’t for my tics whose attention had been caught by the wave-like movements of one of the large trees outside.

“You’re waving like the sea, trees.”
“Trees, is that your ocean impression?”
“Trees, shall we play dead lions? It’ll be an even match.”
“Trees, lunge at the TV aerial now and now and now six, seven, eight.”
“Are you a large tree or a sea anemone?”
“Tree, the squirrels are so lucky you’ve given them white water rafting lessons.”

The branches, still leafy, undulated and swirled. In the dark they looked like a single constantly moving mass.

I drifted off to sleep watching them, shouting sporadically.

Soon the trees will lose their leaves and stop waving like the ocean. And if it wasn’t for Tourettes it’s quite possible this seasonal shift would’ve passed me by.