At the door I hop about, trying to pick the stupid things off. I fall over. I get some of the leaves I have removed on my trousers. A couple I have flicked away are now stuck to a window. The tree is turning my life into a slapstick routine. I stump morosely inside, my feet sticking lightly to the carpet with each step, and open a beer.

It’s not quite as bad as all that but still, for some reason, the Moreton Bay Figs are annoying me more than usual this year.