After a few more minutes of tossing and turning, I give up and go downstairs for a cup of tea. Sleep is clearly not happening anytime soon. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear a noise coming from outside. I stand inside the door and listen for a moment, just to be absolutely certain that it’s not the growling of mountain lions, then I open the door and go down the three steps to the driveway.

It sounds like the whirr of an electric sander on wood. It’s intermittent, like someone is stopping and starting again, and it’s coming from somewhere behind the house. I go across the garden, past the caravan, and walk down the narrow path towards the patch of wasteland where nothing grows. On my side there’s the barn and Evergreene’s collection of stone outbuildings and tin sheds, and on Noel’s side there’s one huge barn and a couple of old stables that he uses for storage.

The main double doors at the front of the barn are closed, but the side door is cracked open and there’s light spilling from under it, and I step over the short wall dividing the land to get a bit nearer.

When the sanding noise stops for a moment, there’s the low hum of Christmas music coming from inside. I stand still and listen to the dulcet tones of Cliff Richard’s ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ before the sander starts up again. It can only be Noel.

Somewhere in the trees, an owl is hooting persistently. He obviously appreciates Cliff’s Christmas classic too.

I go to invite myself in, but a shiver makes me realise how cold I am. I didn’t think to put a jacket on over my pyjamas, and it’s freezing tonight, and I know that if Noel’s got any heat in there, it’ll only be the little heater he brought me on the first night. Instead of going straight in, I go back to the house and pull on the coat that’s hanging by the door and wrap it around myself, freezing after only a few short minutes outside on such a cold night. In the kitchen, I make two large mugs of tea and grab a packet of biscuits. If he’s outside working on a sub-zero night like this, you can guarantee he needs a cuppa and a chocolate digestive.

I’m purposely quiet as I carry the two mugs back to the barn, the packet of biscuits leaning precariously out of my jacket pocket as I slide the door open with my foot and freeze in shock.