I recently moved to a suburban neighbourhood where there is lots of relatively “wild” parkland and a few raggedy patches of woodland. I like to walk in the woods around evening time, after a hard day of writing stupid listicles about Call Of Duty. Forests are a critical preoccupation of mine, actually – check this lumpen thinkypiece I wrote about Alan Wake 2 – but they’re also spaces for retreat and reflection, where I can shrug off the angst and lose myself in the spectacle of sycamores and silverbirch, arching over the path. Except. Except that sooner or later I start thinking about the roots.