I open my eyes and groan when I see 01:03 blinking from my alarm clock on the cabinet. It’s Thursday night, and we’re taking the first of the cut Christmas trees to the market tomorrow, alongside the Christmas tree competition, which is being judged at lunchtime. Market traders and people from local businesses have been rushing around all week putting the finishing touches to their trees, and tomorrow is the day that local schools have arranged trips to the market so the children can pick their favourite tree. The winner will get the new town Christmas tree decorated with their winning design. The council came to collect the tallest Peppermint fir and have installed it on one of the hills between the market and the road, clearly visible from the busy dual carriageway. It’s something a bit different when it comes to exposure and advertising, and most local businesses have jumped at the chance to get involved in the festive fun at the market, even if they don’t win.

It’s the right time to start stocking pre-cut trees on the stall. After all the cutting practice yesterday, today Noel and I left the farmhands shearing and weeding, and went to cut a selection of trees, brought them back to the barn, tagged them with species and size, and netted them with a big tunnel-type machine that Evergreene had in one of the outbuildings. It’s a metal contraption that you thread net around the edge of and pull the cut tree through by its trunk so it picks up the net on its way out, covering its branches and holding them in tight to make the tree stackable and easier for transporting. A pile of trees is waiting in the driveway to load into Noel’s truck in the morning, a few of each variety – the Norway spruces, the Nordmann firs, the Blue spruces, the Balsams, and the Peppermint firs.

We didn’t talk about the mistletoe kiss.

I’m exhausted after such a long day of cutting, hauling, heaving, pushing, pulling, and stacking. I never thought I’d be able to say that driving a tractor was the easiest part of my day, but with so much cutting practice, my tree stumps no longer look like they’ve been chewed off by a hyperactive beaver, and I’ve found bones in my shoulders that I didn’t know existed before because every inch of them aches. I should be asleep by now, but the excitement of actually selling a tree tomorrow is keeping me awake. This will be the first time I find out if strangers think my trees are good enough to buy, and it’s a scary prospect. In the past few weeks, I’ve worked harder than I ever have before in my life, but none of it will matter if no one buys.