We’re heading to the market with the first trees this weekend, so it’s my first opportunity to attempt to cut them down. Peppermint Branches opens to the public next weekend, and things are starting to take shape. Between us, we’ve pruned almost two thousand of the spruces and firs, and Iain and the two workers have done a huge amount of the rest. There are only a few hundred overgrown trees left now, and the ground around them is weed-free and solid. We’ve dug up loads and planted them along either side of the lane, and each one is strung with the twinkling outdoor lights I found. The hot chocolate machine and chestnut roaster are installed in the caravan, and Noel and I have been testing them both to ensure quality. Vigorous testing. Multiple times.

But this is the real groundwork – the actual cutting of Christmas trees. Like the shearing, if I can’t do this, I’m going to be a pretty rubbish Christmas tree farmer.

It’s one of the younger spruces I’m trying to cut, but the bow saw grinds to a halt a quarter of the way the through the slim trunk. Again.

Noel rolls his eyes and wriggles the stuck saw until he can get it free.

‘What am I doing wrong?’ This is the third tree I’ve tried to cut this morning and the third one that Noel’s had to rescue from my terrible attempts.

‘No idea. I’m stumped.’ He looks up at me and grins. ‘Stumped, get it?’

‘Your tree puns would be a lot funnier if you didn’t point them out immediately after making them.’

‘You’ve obviously twigged that my sense of humour is just too sophisticated …’

I do an exaggerated groan. ‘At least that’s a new one. I’ve lost track of how many times you’ve used the stumped one.’

‘Oh, come on. There are prime times for the stumped pun and this is clearly one of them.’ He gestures animatedly at the stumps in front of us and mischief flashes across his blueish-green eyes. ‘At least I’m not making acorn-y joke.’

It should be illegal to laugh at something so terrible, but the look of earnestness on his face makes me guffaw so hard that it takes a few minutes to recover.

He puts the saw back into my gloved hand. ‘Try again. In a straight line. I don’t know why you’re so determined to cut it at an angle. You’re trying to slice it, not hack at it like a chisel. Long smooth strokes. As close to the ground as possible while still giving yourself room to work.’

‘I know,’ I say, because he’s told me ten times, and I’m still cutting too high up, and the saw still inserts itself at a downward angle.