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“I don’t really care… it’s just a tree, isn’t it?” says a woman sat outside the Whitewebbs Toby Carvery, smoking in the sun. I’ve come to the all-roast joint on a sunny Wednesday which should be like any other day: lunch outings over troughs of gravy and plates piled high with roasties and cauliflower cheese. But something’s off. At the edge of the car park, perimeter tape has been unspooled. News teams are rehearsing their pieces to camera. Onlookers have gathered round: some are crying, others are venturing conspiracy theories about how it’s all linked to Tottenham Hotspur. But they’re all discussing one thing: the felling of the Whitewebbs Oak, around 250 metres away from where I’m stood.
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