" My young player, Tractor Man, didn’t call. A week went by. He wasn’t much of a texter but in all the months we’d known each other, he’d never gone a week without calling. Tumbleweed and I was LIVID! 

I had resisted him, I had told him that the age gap was too big and no I did not want to go to the farmers market with him. My sheep was in its pen and there was no way I was pulling my wellies on. Yet HE had jumped into his tractor, driven the miles and turned back up in MY village pub, dangled his fresh young vedge in front of my face and now I was as pickled as Marjorie’s prize-winning beetroot! "

by Helen Watson-Jones