‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. What kind did you have when you were younger?’

‘A green one.’

‘Oh, come on. Blue spruce? Fraser fir? Nordmann fir? Balsam? Pine?’

‘I don’t know, my dad always chose it.’

The look on his face leaves me in no doubt about what he thinks of me.

I drop my head into my hands. ‘I know, okay? I’m fooling myself here, aren’t I?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. If Mr Blobby can have a fanbase … anything’s possible.’

‘Now there’s a vote of confidence if ever there was one …’ I struggle to take my eyes off that lip piercing as a smile spreads slowly across his face, laughter lines crinkling up around his eyes and replacing the tautness.

‘What do you do after Halloween? Is the pumpkin market big year-round?’ I ask because something has to distract me from his upper lip, and I’m already thinking about seasons and how in-demand Christmas trees are between January and October. I suspect the answer is ‘not very’.

‘I keep my market stall. In December I dig up the winter veg that people want for their Christmas dinner, and then in January, I sell cut winter flowers like snowdrops and primroses. In spring I sell the first earlies that have overwintered in my polytunnels, and in summer I sell whatever’s ripe. Then in autumn, I sell the corn ears that haven’t been cut, I raid the apple trees and wrestle my hazelnuts from the squirrels, and then it’s pumpkin season again. Pumpkins are my main crop. I have loads of varieties spread across many acres. Everything else is kind of a “whatever fits in around them” crop. The business is seasonal so you have to fill every available space to keep yourself ticking over throughout the year.’

‘I hadn’t thought about that aspect of Christmas tree farming …’ I say, because let’s face it, it’s one of many aspects I hadn’t thought about.