If his eyebrows go up any further, they’re going to pop off and go on a minibreak to the Outer Hebrides. ‘And you think this is the kind of industry you can learn from a book.’ He sighs. ‘I have nothing to say to you but good luck – good luck in finding another buyer when you decide to give up on your drunken whim and realise this is a difficult job and you need some level of natural aptitude and passion for it.’

‘I have passion,’ I say as he tugs Gizmo to walk away but the little dog stays wagging his tail at me. ‘And I have a plan. Assuming that aptitude as a Christmas tree farmer isn’t based solely on rubber footwear.’

‘A plan?’ He turns back and folds his arms. ‘This should be good.’

It does not sound like a compliment.

I get the page of scribbled notes out of my pocket and unfold it as I hand it to him and watch his light eyes scan over my scribblings. I get a bit self-conscious when he doesn’t say anything but lines start creasing his forehead.

‘It’s a bit rough. It’s scrawled on the back of a map in semi-darkness and I was shivering with the cold so I couldn’t hold the pen steady.’

‘Well, either you’ve invented a whole new language, or you’re fluent in Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphs.’ He looks up at me and then looks down at it again. ‘And cave wall paintings.’

I step closer and try to point out what I’ve drawn. ‘Look, this is the field to the left of the lane. It’s empty so has to be replanted. From the scale on the estate agent’s map, I’ve worked out that it’s about two acres. If each tree takes up a few feet each, I reckon I could get three thousand trees per acre. That’s a lot of trees. I’ve had a guess at expenditure, and I’d only need to sell a couple of hundred at £40 each to break even.’