‘Common sense? It’s been sat there for years. At the very least it needs an oil change and checking over by someone who knows what they’re doing. You don’t just ram the key in and try it. And you need some instruction on how to drive it. They’re dangerous things to operate and you’ve clearly never seen one before in your life.’

I mentally add Tractors For Dummies to my list of books I need to order the moment I can get a Wi-Fi signal. ‘I was trying to be proactive. I can’t do much unless I know exactly what the situation is here.’

‘Killing the tractor is not going to help.’

I glare up at him without taking my hands out of Gizmo’s short fur, and he leans against the doorframe and hooks one leg over the other and nods into the barn. ‘I’m impressed with your progress. So far you’ve managed to open the barn door. Even that would prove too much for some city girls.’

‘What have you got against people from cities?’ I say in babytalk as I make faces at Gizmo.

‘Nothing. I just don’t believe in worlds colliding. You’re a …’ He gestures towards me, waving his hand around like he can’t find the right word. ‘You’re a shopper. No matter how good your intentions might be, you don’t even own a pair of wellies. How can you attempt to be a farmer when you don’t own a good pair of stomping boots?’

‘Did you come out of the womb wearing welly-boots? Which would’ve been really weird. And really uncomfortable for your poor mother,’ I snap because he seems to have completely missed the fact that these things can be bought.

He lets out an unexpected burst of laughter and hands Gizmo’s lead to me, then he strides into the smoky barn and comes back out with the notebook I was using. ‘Your inventory-taking skills are enviable. Tractor. Lots of tools. Metal thingies. Long sharp knives.’ He reads aloud from what I’ve scribbled down so far. ‘Otherwise known as shearing knives – your most important tools during shearing season. Lots of saws. Strimmer. Hedge cutter. Chainsaws. Big metal frame thingy with wheels and blades.’ He’s laughing to himself as he reads it.

‘It’s not funny,’ I say to Gizmo, who leans up to lick my nose.

‘No, it’s hilarious that someone who wants to be a Christmas tree farmer can’t identify a plough.’

So that’s what it is. ‘I knew that.’