The continuing story of Malcolm Brown and his transition from art student to arb expert on the local parks department.It was the whistling that Malcolm and his friend and colleague Marko first noticed, one cold morning as they sat huddled round the wood burning stove in Eastwood Park messroom - a tiny microcosm of the main depot in the flats, its cramped, square interior was rank with the stench of sweat, wet leaves, tobacco fumes and burning wood. Beneath the permanent haze of smoke everything had a yellowed tinge and gobs of tobacco-infused condensation dripped freely from the ceiling. Malcolm had just been considering the option of staying in the warm but disgusting hut, or venturing out into the damp park in the hope of finding something other than sweeping to do. Budgets had flatlined, halting crown raising of street trees (highways budget), or removal (unless dangerous) and replacement of estate trees (housing budget). All that was left was the parks themselves. But weather was a problem.
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