Eric Has A New Girl.

 Tuesday 28th October 2025

It’s school holidays in some places this week, so today Mum was looking after Heidi while her mum was at work.

She arrived just before nine—perfect timing to help with breakfast, both in the cooking and the eating of it. The cooking part mostly involved fetching and carrying for Mum, but she took her duties seriously and did a good job.

Having breakfast with us meant she also got both entertained and educated by Eric. I actually felt a bit neglected this morning. The entertainment centred around Eric’s finger trick. I can’t explain it properly—my eyes barely understand it themselves. It’s all about how you interlock your fingers, and somehow the result looks as though two of them are broken or twisted. Heidi thought it was marvellous.

Then Eric asked her what she was going to do all day and whether she’d be coming out to help him.

“Don’t you go putting ideas in her head,” Mum said. “I want to be able to return her in good fettle to her mother when she calls for her.”

Before he could think of another suggestion, Mum told him they were going to spend the morning baking.

That, of course, reminded Eric of his famous tale about the time he baked currant buns but accidentally used rabbit droppings instead of currants. How anyone could possibly do that by mistake I’ll never know. Naturally, it earned him another telling-off from Mum, which Heidi found hilarious.

They spent the whole morning in the kitchen baking and cooking—Heidi making cakes for a Halloween party she’s having with her friends, and later some scones with currants and cherries for us. Mum made a big pot of homemade vegetable soup for our dinner tonight.

At lunchtime, Heidi presented Eric with one of the scones, telling him—with a little prompting from me—that it was a special one made with rabbit droppings. Eric played along beautifully, saying how delicious it was and how much better than ordinary currants. Heidi's face was a picture as she sat watching him. I'm sure she believed the play to be true.

After lunch, she did some crafty work with Mum. Mum had bought some air-dry clay in all different colours, so they spent quite a while making Christmas ornaments.

Around four, I took her out to watch Eric feeding the cows. She loves the cows. It was a bit wet and muddy around the yard after all the rain we’ve had, so we had to be careful where we went.

And that was my day really—just doing bits and bobs while joining in where I could. Watching Heidi, I couldn’t help thinking it would’ve been lovely to have a sister.

Later, when the house was quiet again, the smell of vegetable soup heating up on the stove drifted through the rooms. Mum sat in her chair by the window, tired but smiling faintly to herself. I thought about how full of laughter the house had been only hours before, and how quickly silence returns once the door closes.

There was something comforting in that quiet though—like a deep breath after the joy of company. It reminded me how lucky I am now, to have somewhere that feels so much like home.

Sneaky Washer Woman.

 Monday 27th October 2025

This morning was the usual round of housekeeping duties. Mum’s back was giving her a bit of jip, so I suggested she take it easy and let me do as much as I could alongside my usual vacuuming job.

“She’ll do anything to get her hands on your new feather duster, Jan,” Eric chipped in, trying to stir up trouble as usual.

In the end, Mum decided she’d just clean the conservatory and leave the beds until she felt a bit better. It was a fine day for washing, so I did them while she was out of the way. When she’s among her plants—whether in the conservatory or the garden—she becomes completely absorbed, oblivious to everything else going on around her.

It was worth the effort anyway; she was genuinely pleased when she realised how much I’d managed to get done.

After lunch, we went to church to take down everything we’d put up on Saturday and had a bit of a tidy while we were at it. I quite enjoyed it, to be honest—it took me into corners of the place you don’t usually get to see.

By the time I’d brought in the washing and folded it ready for ironing, it was time for tea and biscuits in the summer house—one of my favourite parts of the day. We spent a while there, talking about what we might buy Dad for Christmas, though so far, we’re still undecided. When someone has just had a new tractor everything else seems a touch trivial by comparison.

The sun was sinking by the time we came back to the house, the air cooling fast and the light turning soft and gold through the trees. Inside, the rooms felt warm and homely after the chill outdoors. Mum was humming quietly in the kitchen while I set the table.

“Feeling any better now?” I asked.

She smiled, straightening slowly. “A bit. Thanks to you—and your secret washing operation.”

I laughed. “Well, I knew you wouldn’t mind once you saw how clean the sheets were.”

“Hmm,” she said, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “I’ll let you off this time.”

The kettle began to whistle softly, and the smell of cooking drifted through the room. I sat down at the table, listening to the familiar sounds of home—mum's radio playing BBC Radio 2, the hum of the oven, the faint creak of the floorboards upstairs as dad readies himself for the evening—and felt that small, gentle peace that comes when the day’s work is done and all is well for a little while.

“Twice in one week, Dad?"

 Sunday 26th October 2025

This morning Mum and I went to church. We would have gone anyway, but with it being the Harvest Festival, the service felt a bit more special. Those who hadn’t been there yesterday seemed genuinely pleased by all the work that had gone into decorating the church. It did seem a shame that it would all be taken down after just one day.

There was, however, a touch of sadness about the morning. Moss has had his test results back, and it seems he has bowel cancer. People were trying to stay upbeat, saying how much treatment has improved these days and how well many do — but I’m not sure how much comfort words like that really bring, especially when you’re the one facing it.

I couldn’t think of much to do except offer to drive him to the hospital if he ever finds himself short of transport. It’s not much, but it’s something, and he seemed grateful.

Because the service ran on a little longer than usual, Dad decided to take us out for lunch afterwards.

“Twice in one week, Dad? Are you feeling all right?” I teased.

Mum laughed, and Dad turned towards me, eyes twinkling.

“You watch your tongue, young madam,” he said, nodding towards Mum and giving me a wink.

For those who don’t know, young madam is Mum’s line when she thinks I’ve overstepped my place a little — so Dad was having a dig at both of us at once.

We all laughed, and it lightened the air again. By the time we got home, the afternoon light was already softening due to the clocks getting altered last night. Mum put the kettle on while Dad settled by the fire, and for a moment, before going out to help Eric with the cattle. It was the kind of feeling you wish you could bottle and keep for when the days aren’t quite so easy.

Harvest Festival Preparations.

 Saturday 25th October 2025

Tomorrow is the church Harvest Festival, so Mum asked if I’d go and help with the decorating and setting up of the food donations — which of course I did.

We called in at the stables on the way, though I can’t say I was overly keen on the idea.

There was a nice moment, though, when Peter and Elizabeth spotted me standing by the car and immediately dropped everything to come over. They both looked happy and well, which always pleases me — it’s good to see how life has turned out for them. From what I could gather, Charlotte is still seeing Nigel, though by the sound of it he’s up to his old tricks again. I couldn’t help saying I wasn’t exactly surprised. Charlotte herself was in the training ring with Lyn, and I decided it was best to keep out of the way and wait for Mum by the car.

Once we arrived at the church, my first job was to help one of the ladies sweep up the leaves blowing around by the door. It was a hopeless task in a brisk north-westerly wind, but we gave it a good go. By the time we left, I noticed that just as many had blown back again.

We arranged the food donations inside the entrance — baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, tins, packets, and jars all neatly lined up. It reminded me of when Irene once suggested I try shop work; perhaps if I’d taken her up on it instead of turning into a farm girl, I might have done a tidier job of the display. Still, I did my best.

Mum and the other ladies were busy with flowers, wheat sheaves, and garlands of hops, the whole church beginning to smell of autumn and greenery. I mostly passed things over when asked, happy just to be part of it all.

It was an enjoyable afternoon, made even better when we stopped for fish and chips on the way home — the kind of simple treat that somehow makes a good day even better. By the time we got back, the air was cool and still, and the last of the daylight lingered across the fields. The house lights glowed softly across the yard as we carried everything inside — the smell of salt and vinegar following us in. Dad welcoming us with a big smile, the warmth from the wood burner and the chatter about the day's events coming up the stairs as I quickly changed — and it felt, in that small, contented way, like home.

Surprise Company.

 Friday 24th October 2025

When we got up from breakfast this morning, Mum reminded Dad that we wouldn’t be in for lunch as we were heading to the garden centre for dinner and to take a look at the Christmas displays. It turned out to be a good thing she mentioned it — Dad had clearly forgotten.

He hesitated for a moment, as though something had just come to him.

“You haven’t got room for a little ’un, have you?” he asked.

Mum and I both looked at him, a bit puzzled.

“I suppose so,” she said cautiously. “Why, what’s happening then?”

“Well,” Dad began, with that half-grin of his, “I haven’t got anything desperate on. I was thinking, seeing as it’s my little girl’s first Christmas with us, I might come along and maybe get a few snaps of her on Santa’s lap!”

That was just Dad being Dad — sentimental and daft all at once. It made me smile, though I knew perfectly well there’d be no such photo today or any other day. Mum made sure of that.

“We’re not having any of that sitting on strange fellas’ laps around here,” she said firmly.

I’m not sure why she’s so against it. After all it was the last spell of lap-sitting that got me here — not that I plan on repeating that experience.

So, the three of us set off for the garden centre. We had a lovely lunch and spent some time wandering through the aisles, admiring all the lights and ornaments. Mum was hoping to find a new Christmas tree but none quite took her fancy.

At one point she turned to me and asked, “Is there anything that takes your fancy?”

Having never done anything like this before, I was already feeling a little overwhelmed — and quietly thrilled — by the whole experience. The idea that I might actually get to choose something myself caught me off guard.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Mum asked, her tone sharp but not unkind, just her usual impatience with my indecisive moments.

“No,” I said after a pause. “Everything has taken my fancy. I want it all.”

Dad burst out laughing, slung his arm round me, and gave me a quick squeeze.

“That’s my girl — no messing about! Gets the job done properly, no matter what!”

Not one to be outdone by Dad’s foolishness, Mum shot back, “You’d better fetch that bloomin’ tractor of yours and a trailer, then.”

In the end, she just bought a few bits, saying we’d try somewhere else another day.

As we drove home, the sun was dipping low behind the trees, the sky washed in that quiet gold that only October seems to manage. Mum was talking softly about where the new decorations might go, Dad humming along with the radio. I sat in the back, watching the fields roll by, thinking how strange and lovely it feels to belong somewhere at last. It’s funny — after all the years of waiting, Christmas seems to have already begun.

No rules, no manners, no grace.

 Thursday 23rd October 2025

Today was whacky bin race day again — and that Eric was up to his usual cheating ways!

There’s no starting pistol, no countdown, no waiting for the red lights to go out. Perhaps it would be better if there were. As it is, the tension always builds toward the end of breakfast — each of us poised to catch the first sign of dismissal from the table. The race begins the instant we sense it’s safe to bolt.

This little bin-race ritual has survived several of Mum’s attempts to call time on it. After her scolding, one or both of us — but mostly Eric — will inevitably reply, “Great, that means I’m the overall winner then!”

What follows is an exchange of wildly inaccurate scores, numbers thrown around with great conviction but no record-keeping to back them up. Mum rises from the table shaking her head in dismay, Dad laughs at something nobody quite understands, and Eric and I take that as the cue.

Then chaos: no rules, no manners, no grace — just the two of us thundering out the door, before heading down the garden path bins in hand, vowing vengeance to the winner for next time.

And so it went this morning. We were both perched on the edges of our chairs when Eric suddenly said, “Since when did you allow muddy boots in the kitchen, Jan?”

He was pointing at my boots, placed neatly under a side chair by the wall. Without thinking, Mum and I both turned to look at once. The split second my attention slipped, Eric made his dash for the dairy door.

By the time I’d finished defending myself to Mum, retrieved my boots (which he’d sneakily moved), and got outside — he was already halfway down the garden path, bin rattling triumphantly ahead of him.

The only sympathy Mum offered was a dry, “It’s your own fault for encouraging him. You know what he’s like.”

And so another round goes to Eric — at least until next time. I’ll be ready for him.

This evening, the house still feels faintly alive with the laughter from breakfast — the kind that lingers quietly in the walls long after the dishes are done and we're sat snuggled up. Dad is always quick to point out that this is what I've brought to the house with me as it was never present until I arrived. He pulls my leg saying that they used to have a quiet life, now they enjoy a proper life.

A Contrasting Christmas.

 Wednesday 22nd October 2025

Mum was talking this morning about going out for dinner at the garden centre one day this week. She says that now there’s more reason, she’d like to go all out on decorating the house for Christmas this year. She wants to see how much another tree would be and to look at the decorations they’ve got in stock.

I suggested it might be a bit early, but she seems to think the displays will already be up.

Anyway, that was neither here nor there — but somehow it set my mind wandering back over past Christmases. Just that small, cheerful conversation with Mum was probably more genuine excitement for Christmas than I ever remember feeling before.

As I lay on my bed later, I found myself thinking how last Christmas was the best I’ve had so far. Grandfather was too ill to cause any trouble, and there’d been plenty of preparation beforehand, which made it feel properly festive. Cindy made a lovely dinner.

The year before had been a very different story. That was the year I learned I was to be sent away to Scotland “for my sins.” I was in the dog house — quite literally — and my Christmas dinner came in a dog’s bowl, as did every meal I had then. My birth dad, bless him, quietly transferred it onto a proper plate once my birth mother wasn’t looking and brought it up to my room for me. By then it was nearly cold. I didn’t get a present that year.

The Christmas before that, my only present was a bathroom gift set — the very one I’d bought my birth mother for her birthday two months earlier. I should have known she wouldn’t use it.

I can still picture her sad little Christmas tree, perched on a table to make it look bigger, with its tangled tinsel and dusty decorations. She hated the bother of taking things down, so after Christmas she’d shove the whole tree, still decorated, into a plastic bag and store it in the garage until the next year. About a week before Christmas, she’d haul it out again, ready for when all her parcels from Amazon arrived.

She’d buy herself stacks of presents and spend the whole day opening them slowly, one by one, while I watched and tried to look excited. When I once asked why Dad and I only got one each, she told me it was a mother’s right — and that one day, when I had children of my own, I’d get lots too.

The rest of her day was spent eating chocolates and drinking whatever she’d bought herself. I mostly stayed in my room, watching festive TV shows alone. My birth dad spent the day cooking, clearing up, and running after her — which was just the way things always were.

Going back to school after Christmas was the worst part. Everyone would be full of stories about what they’d been given and where they’d been. A few of the kids went away somewhere snowy and came back talking about sleigh rides with real reindeer. I loved the thought of it but hated the way it made me feel.

I kept quiet and to myself, having nothing to tell. If anyone asked, I’d try to dodge the question by saying we didn’t celebrate Christmas. That only led to more awkward questions, so in time I learned to lie.

Thinking about all this now, and the way Mum was talking earlier, made me weep a little — not so much for the past, but for the future. Just the simple thought of going out with her to look at Christmas decorations has already made this the best Christmas I can remember. And there are still two months to go yet.

Later this evening, after tea, Mum was sitting by the fire making a list of things we might need — fairy lights, ribbons, a new wreath for the door — and she asked what colours I liked best. I burried my face into dad's arm so as to make him part of it. Outside, the night was cold and clear, the first stars would be showing over the fields. Inside, the room was golden with lamplight and the soft ticking of the clock. I sat watching her write, feeling a quiet, unexpected happiness — the kind that settles in gently and makes you realise how far you’ve come, and how good it feels to belong.

An Encounter With Norman.

 Tuesday 21st October 2025

Today I finished off a field by ploughing the headlands.

On the way back, I had to pass Norman’s old place. As I approached, I could see someone standing on the road, and as I drew closer, I realised it was Norman himself — hands on hips, staring down at something as though it had personally offended him. I would have stopped anyway, but that stance made me even more curious to see what he was up to.

It was a bit of a squeeze getting the tractor and plough into his little yard, but it seemed worth the effort — the lane might be quiet, but the minute you block it, you can be sure someone will want to come past.

He looked pleased to see me as I approached him.

“Hello Norman, how are you settling in? You’re not planning on coming back, are you?”

It was really more of an invitation to explain what he was doing rather than an actual enquiry about his future living arrangements. But as with any conversation with Norman, it’s never that simple. You have to hear about someone you don’t know, who lives somewhere you’ve never heard of, and about something that has absolutely nothing to do with the matter at hand.

Eventually, after chasing him around the houses about three times, I gathered that he wanted to dig up some bulbs and a peony from his front garden, but had neither the tools nor the transport to take them to his new place— as he’d come on his bicycle.

After giving the matter some considerable and serious thought (for about two seconds), I offered to help. There was still some time left in the day, so that wasn’t a problem. The only real challenge was getting Norman to stay put for half an hour while I went home to fetch what we needed.

In the end, I decided the safest way to keep him under control was to take him with me. I didn’t tell him that, of course — instead, I casually suggested he might like a ride in the tractor. His face lit up at once. I think for any old farmer, the chance to go for a ride on a tractor again is always welcome.

When we arrived home, I couldn’t see Dad anywhere, but his truck was parked up in front of the house, which was a good sign. I phoned him, explained the situation, and he seemed rather amused by it all. He told me the keys were in the kitchen.

So off I dashed — first to the tool shed to grab a spade and a fork, then into the kitchen for the keys.

Next thing I hear is:

“OY OY OY! What do you think you’re doing, young lady? Out — NOW!”

In my rush, I’d completely forgotten to take off my boots.

I made a hasty retreat, Mum snapping at my heels.

“Go on — for the love of Mike — get out with you! Goodness me!”

The thing about Mum is that even when she’s furious, she manages it in a way that isn’t nasty and even makes me smile somehow.

I apologised profusely from the doorway to the dairy and asked if she’d pass me the truck keys. She handed them over while asking where the fire was. I laughed and assured her there was no fire, promising to explain later as I had Norman waiting in the yard.

So off we went again back to his old place to dig up his precious bulbs and peony. Once we’d finished, I loaded everything, including Norman and his bike, into the truck and deposited the lot safely at his new cottage three miles away.

I got home just in time to clean the tools and change for afternoon tea in the summerhouse with Mum. Over tea, I was able to recount the full saga — every twist, turn, and tangent of the afternoon — along with the latest morsels of gossip I’d managed to extract from Norman.

By the time we finished and walked back to the house, the light had turned golden and soft, spilling through the glass of the kitchen window and glinting off the jars of marmalade still on the counter from yesterday. It looked for all the world like they were lit up. Mum was laughing so much from telling my tale to dad as she poured him tea, and even Eric, passing by with his mug, paused at the door to shake his head, half smiling. Then the day settled gently around us — one of those small, good evenings that seem to belong entirely to home. I concluded that I would never have a boy friend simply because I could never give up times like this.

Eric presented me with a “present.”

 Monday 20th October 2025

As those who read this diary know, Mum likes her plants — houseplants as much as garden ones. Anyway, to my horror (and regret), I managed to drown one a few weeks back. Mum sometimes asks me to give them a watering, which is fine for the most part, as all but one are in proper plant pots with drainage holes in the bottom. That way, any extra water drains out into the saucer below.

There is one pot, though, that doesn’t have drainage holes, so if anyone overwaters it, the poor thing just sits in a bog. I did this without realising. It was only like that for a few days before Mum spotted my mistake, but apparently that was long enough to kill it. Soon the leaves began to yellow and drop off, and then the plant rotted altogether. Not even William, the gardener, has been able to revive it.

Well, this morning over breakfast, Eric presented me with a “present.” I opened it to find a gadget for testing whether a plant needs watering. I think, like the bike present that time, it was meant as a bit of a leg-pull — but it’s actually quite useful. It’s a thin rod with a gauge on one end; you stick the pointy end into the soil, and the gauge tells you how wet it is.

There was a good deal of merriment about that over breakfast. Mum even tried to claim it at one point. In the end, we struck a deal: she can borrow my moisture meter if I’m allowed to use her new feather duster. That was agreed — with the strict proviso that I don’t take the duster out to use on my tractor.

“That sounds like you’re going to be drawing up plans to have the front door widened a bit then, Katie!”

That was Eric’s solution to my feather duster restrictions. You can always count on him to provide a sensible answer to any problem.

This morning I helped Mum with some housework — cleaning, tidying, and what have you. I don’t mind doing it, and my company seems to mean a lot to her. Then this afternoon we made marmalade. It’s the first we’ve made while I’ve been here, though Mum says she always makes her own. We ran out a couple of weeks back, so we’ve been using shop-bought, which Eric has found something to complain about almost every morning. So tomorrow, at least, he should be happy.

This evening the kitchen still smells faintly of oranges and sugar, and the jars are lined up on the counter catching the lamplight. Mum says we’ll label them in the morning once they’re properly set. For now, it feels like a small, homely triumph — the sort of day that ends with laughter still hanging in the air and everything quietly in its place.

Worrying News.

 Sunday 19th October 2025

We had some worrying news at church this morning. Moss has been losing weight recently, even though he’s been eating well. He finally decided to see the doctor, who sent him for further tests. Now that the results have come back, it seems the news isn’t the best. He’s being sent for an urgent scan — though “urgent” in this country means a wait of two weeks. It’s hard not to feel anxious, knowing he’s quietly carrying that weight of uncertainty. Everyone who knows him feels it.

Of course, this means no Victoria sponge cake for me, which is perfectly fine. I wouldn’t want him doing anything for the sake of my little routine, however much I enjoy it. It wouldn’t sit right. I know too well what it’s like when people expect you to keep something going just to make their world run smoothly. I’ll just have to learn to make my own. I’m sure Mum can advise — and if not, I know someone else who can.

It’s been raining all afternoon and into the evening, a steady grey curtain that has kept the world hushed. Now that my time is mostly spent on these diary entries, I’ve had a chance to catch up on a few backdated ones — small moments I’d meant to record but hadn’t. It felt grounding, somehow, to bring those memories back to life while the rain whispered outside.

Dad joined us for afternoon tea in the summer house, which felt like a small pocket of peace in the day. The rain pattered on the roof, and the heater hummed softly while the lamplight turned everything golden. Even though the weather outside was miserable, we were warm and cocooned in our little circle. None of us wanted to make the dash back to the house. In the end, it was Dad’s rumbling stomach that gave us away, breaking the spell with a laugh.

"Did you paint this?"

 Saturday 18th October 2025

This morning, just after nine, as Mum and I were preparing breakfast ready for Dad to come back in from feeding round, she suddenly said, “Who’s that?”

I followed her gaze through the window, out into the yard, where a man was standing looking a little unsure of himself. Straight away I recognised him as the farmer I’d pulled out of the ditch a few weeks back.

Then I remembered Eric mentioning a few days later that someone called Clint had been looking for me, and I’d wondered at the time if that might have been the same man. But as I hadn’t heard anything since, it had slipped from my mind—until now.

“Oh, it’s the man I helped out of the ditch that day. I think his name might be Clint,” I said to Mum, rushing for the dairy door to make sure I caught him before he disappeared again.

“Sorry, love, I hope I haven’t disturbed anyone,” he said as soon as he spotted me approaching from the side of the house.

I wasn’t sure why he needed to apologise—perhaps I looked as though I’d just fallen out of bed—so I told him it was no trouble, that I’d been up a while helping Mum with breakfast.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he went on, “but I wanted to do something to thank you for getting me out of that mess. I’d have been in right bother with Tony if you hadn’t helped me.”

I wasn’t sure who Tony was—maybe his boss—but before I could ask, he held out a white plastic bag for me to take.

“It’s not much,” he said with a hint of embarrassment, “I hope you like it. It’s probably a bit naff, really.”

Curious now, I opened the bag and discovered a framed picture. Inside was what looked to be a hand-painted image of a Massey Ferguson—just like mine.

"Did you paint this?" He confirmed that he did, adding that he was just learning so it wasn't very good.

I’m completely hopeless at art, and no better as a judge of it either, but the thought behind that picture, and the subject of it, made it the best picture I’d ever seen. My first instinct was to give him a hug, but I thought he might find that a bit much, so I thanked him as warmly as I dared without getting carried away.

Dad arrived just then, looking puzzled about who the man was and why I was so excited. I held up the picture for him to see, ready to say, “Look what Clint did for helping him out of the ditch!” But I stopped myself and instead asked if he really was the Clint Eric had mentioned. He confirmed it was, explaining that the reason for the delay in returning was that he’d been away on holiday in Corfu.

That was about it really. Dad asked a few questions—how he’d managed to drive into a ditch, that sort of thing—and offered him a cup of tea. Clint declined, saying he needed to take his mum shopping. It seems he lives with her in the village, just the two of them.

The rest of the day I spent mostly with Mum. We baked cookies and a lemon drizzle cake. After lunch I took a few of the cookies to Rob’s, where we spent a couple of hours putting the world to rights. It’s too big a job to manage in two hours, so we gave up in the end and stuck to tea and cookies instead. I’m actually starting to think I’m getting quite good at baking—they really were very tasty.

As evening settled, the light faded quickly, and the chill of autumn crept in around the windows. The days are drawing in earlier now, and the nights are beginning to carry that crisp edge that hints at winter’s approach. Mum suggested we have a little treat before turning in—a slice each of the lemon drizzle cake. Dad, naturally, couldn’t resist teasing; he cut two neat pieces for Mum and me, then slid the rest of the cake toward his own plate with a grin. I chased him off back to the sitting room before cutting him a normal-sized piece like ours. We ended up laughing over it, the three of us gathered close in the warm sitting room, the lamplight soft and golden, the air still scented with lemon and sugar.

As I write this now, ready for my bed, the house is quiet and the night has settled deep outside. There’s a comfort in knowing how the seasons turn, bringing us back indoors together as the evenings grow cold. It feels like the year is gently folding itself around us, and for tonight at least, all feels safe and warm at home.

A quiet contentment.

 Friday 17th October 2025

Today has been a still, grey sort of day with a definite chill in the air — properly autumn-like, the kind that makes you think of wool jumpers and mugs of tea. I’ve just come back in from hanging out the washing and my fingers are freezing. I’m not farming today, as Mum is meeting “Mad Linda” for lunch at the local pub, and I’m going along to join them. I’ll have to make my own way there though, since Mum’s off swimming first with Heidi’s mum — she’s the mother of that little girl Mum sometimes looks after during the school holidays.

For a moment, I fancied turning up to the pub in the tractor — something about the idea made me laugh — but in the end Dad and I made a deal. I could borrow his pickup if I left him plenty of food for his lunch. Fair’s fair, I suppose. I kept my side of it, and since he’s my favourite dad and I was grateful for the use of his truck, I even left him the last slice of my Victoria sponge. I just hope he doesn’t get too fond of it, or I’ll have to start hiding my cakes!

Lunch was nice — even Lea came along, as she decided to tag along with Mum after swimming. I didn’t mind; it actually made things feel quite cheerful. I’m not entirely sure Mum felt the same though — I got the sense that Lea had sort of invited herself, and Mum didn’t have the heart to say no. Still, it was easy-going, and there was plenty of chatter and laughter floating about.

By the way, “Mad Linda” isn’t really mad — that nickname’s just to tell her apart from the several other Lindas Mum knows. She’s more a whirlwind of energy, the kind of person who fills every corner of a room. Spend too long with her and it’s you who ends up feeling a bit mad!

That’s about it for today really. I’ve just come upstairs after watching some detective drama on TV — I’d tell you which one, but the name’s slipped my mind and I’m far too comfortable to go looking.

This is the first entry of the firebreak period, and there’s something different about it — lighter somehow. I feel more at ease, more myself. Maybe it’s because I’m not thinking about anyone else reading this right now. It’s like I’ve taken a deep breath and let it out slowly, writing just for me again.

Outside, the night is black and the air is cool and still, the kind that makes the glow of the lamp on my desk feel especially soft. There’s a peaceful sort of freedom in nights like this — nothing pressing, nothing hurried, just the quiet contentment of being where I am.

Firebreak.

 Thursday 16th October 2025.

Today I have been out ploughing again. I finished off the field I started yesterday. I have to admit to not being in a very good mood on account of recent troubles. To be honest I have come to wonder if something that causes so much grief actually defeats the object of doing this in the first place.

Before setting about my work I was up early this morning as I wanted to analyse the information I received yesterday with regard to the anonymous message sent to a friend that I mentioned. At the time I felt sure that it was not sent by someone I knew. However after going through some of the more obvious names and still not coming up with anything I spotted someone who I never considered and even at first glance there were things that stood out. So I decided to do a full in depth comparison of writing styles working through all six categories in true Miss Oliver fashion. I feel sure that reading my conclusion she would have been pleased. There were a number of consistent similarities in both tone and structure. I actually came out with a score of 90 to 100 percent but I could find absolute proof that they were the same person so it's best to deduct at least 5%. Even if I was really generous and said 85 to 95% that is still high enough to make me sure I have the right person.

The other surprise that came out of this analyse is that I was part the problem to some extent. I seem to have somehow painted this picture of myself and current lifestyle that some people want to not just be a part of and grateful that I share, but to demand as their own. Which is fine, I enjoy sharing my good fortune, but not when it's demanded of me, without what seems to me to be any regard to what I need to do for myself.

So what do I do about this. I feel like just quitting altogether, but I also feel a responsibility to my loyal, trouble free readers. So I won't just stop as that would be unfair. However I also have to think about the effect my writing is having on certain individuals. To write a message like that to whom they wrote it tells me that I need to do something to dowse the flames rather than fan them with more of the same.

So in view of all of the above I am going to create a fire break effect. It will give people who write stupid massages time to ponder their actions. Hopefully it will become more about what they have rather than what they want. It will give me time to evaluate, not so much my writing style, but my style of interaction with my audience. I'm clearly provoking jealousy among people, so I need to look in to how that comes about and stop it. It's not at all what I want. For all those well behaved readers who feel this is unfair to them I promise you won't miss a thing in return for a bit of patience. Being decent people I'm sure you can understand that I can't allow this situation with the nasty messages to carry on or you may be the next one to be receiving one. I'm going to leave my diary in public mode for anyone who wants to spend time reading past entries. (Provided everyone behaves from now on). My next entry will be on the Saturday 15th November 2025.

Not Amused.

 Wednesday 15th October 2025

I've had a message from a friend today telling me they’ve been getting abuse from someone who follows me. I’m not going into details, as it’s a private matter, but I felt it needed saying here just in case anyone else has received anything similar — especially messages trying to warn them off from speaking to me.

If that’s happened, please let me know. Who I speak to and who can message me is my decision, and I won’t have anyone interfering with that. I’ve always made a point of keeping my messages open to everyone, and I’ve tried to reply to everyone too, even on nights when all I’ve wanted to do was collapse into bed.

I can’t write any more today; I’m too annoyed. This is the first real trouble I’ve had here, and I’m not at all amused. I hope it’s dealt with quickly so things can get back to normal.

Mum’s chauffeur.

 

Tuesday 14th October 2025

I was looking forward to doing some more ploughing today, but that all changed over breakfast.

Yesterday evening, Mum was getting into a bit of a panic about her friend Jane. They were due to meet up for the day today, only Mum had completely forgotten until Jane reminded her in a message last night. The reason for the panic came from the destination — somewhere over Pontefract way, just off the M62 motorway. Mum’s fine driving when it’s somewhere familiar, but she soon gets flustered if it’s a route she doesn’t know.

Anyway, things only got worse over breakfast, with Mum fretting on about “what if this” and “what if that,” and wondering where Junction 62 was, and whether she’d even know where she was when she got there. I think it all became too much for Dad, because he suddenly, and rather sharply, said,

“Look, Jan, just use your phone like any normal person does.”

My eyes met with Eric’s, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. The thought came instantly — I needed to step in. The last thing I wanted was to have to choose which one to live with if they ended up getting a divorce!

“If it’s okay, I don’t mind swapping my day off to take you,” I said. “I can make up the time on Saturday if that’s alright with everyone.”

“Katie, you don’t have days off or days on around here. You do as you please and see fit, dear. I’ve more than enough faith in you to prioritise your life properly,” said Dad.

That was nice of him — and I could tell it was a great weight off Mum’s mind too. Dad went on to say there was no rush for the ploughing to be done anyway. He just knew how much I enjoyed being out on the tractor and wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing out.

So today, I’ve been Mum’s chauffeur. We met Jane for lunch, then went back to her house for dinner. Because it was after dinner when we got home, we brought Dad fish and chips — we knew he’d be starving by then. I made sure to go into the chip shop to place the order myself, just so I could ask for an extra-large portion. I knew he’d need a little help with one that size!

Like a tangled web.

 Monday 13th October 2025

I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what Dad said to me last night. Then, this morning, while Mum and I were taking a short break from cleaning, she suddenly said out of the blue,

“Your dad’s a different man since you came to us.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” I said.

“Yes, of course,” she smiled. “He’s always kept his feelings locked away inside, and that’s no good to anybody. What he said to you last night about that song was so true—it made my own heart weep to hear him say something like that.”

I told her she should have joined us on the sofa and let her own feelings flow too.

Mum also mentioned that it was talk of Eric retiring that prompted them to make that trip to Scotland when they bumped into me. They’d thought it might be their last chance to go away for a while if they needed to hire someone new and get them settled in to look after the place. Since I showed up, though, Eric’s had a new lease of life and hasn’t even mentioned retiring again.

I knew Eric had given up on retiring—mainly so he could keep teasing me every day—but I hadn’t realised he was the reason they ended up at the end of the big house drive when they did. It still amazes me how all those little coincidences line up so perfectly. Without Eric hinting at retirement, without Grandfather deciding to drive down the track when he did, without the blue van man turning up… not to mention me, Irene, Mum, and Dad all choosing that particular day.

All those people and choices—each one had to come together at just the right time, or I’d have been anywhere else but here. Even Dirty Dave played his part. It’s strange how everyone’s lives are connected—sometimes by people you’ve never met and never will—but who still somehow shape the paths of those you do meet.

These are the things I find myself thinking about while I’m driving along in the tractor, so long as it’s not a job that demands all my attention. And when I do, there’s a quiet comfort in knowing that, however tangled the paths might seem, they somehow led me home.

A lovely day.

 Sunday 12th October 2025

Today’s entry really began last evening, when Dad came in from work. He came straight over and gave me a big hug — quite out of the blue — and then, with a grin, announced,

“We must have a music night tonight. There’s something I want you to listen to.”

He’s always enthusiastic about his music nights, but the way he said it made me feel this one might be something a little different — something special.

As it turned out, the music night never happened. Mum poured a bit of cold water on the idea when she reminded him that one of her favourite TV shows was reaching its grand finale. She wasn’t being nasty at all; we both knew how much she’d been following it. That’s just the way things are here — little rhythms and rituals we all make room for.

So, tonight, music night finally happened. I took up my usual position — tucked in close beside Dad and his glass of whisky on the sofa — the same spot I claim most evenings, not just when music’s involved. Once we were settled, Dad queued up a singer called Bill Withers. I hadn’t heard of him before, so I didn’t know what to expect. His songs were warm and soulful, though I thought he did stretch things out a bit here and there.

We started with a track called “Ain’t No Sunshine.” Then, before he played the next one — “Lovely Day” — Dad turned to me and said,

  “Pay close attention to the words in this track, Katie. They say exactly what you do to me… and to everyone else you meet during your day.”

I could tell right then that it was going to be one of those moments. And sure enough, before the first chorus was over, I was crying like a baby in my dad’s arms. It was so touching, so impossibly tender, it almost hurt. He wrapped his arm around me, gave me a little kiss on the forehead — the way he does when he’s feeling especially proud or soft-hearted — and said quietly,

  “You must never question your worth, Katie. Giving this kind of feeling to the people around you — that’s worth having you here, even without all the other things you do for us.”

I don’t think I’ll forget that moment for a long time. There was such a lovely hush in the room afterwards — just the low hum of the music, the soft crackle from the fire, and the comfort of belonging exactly where I was meant to be.

I’ve put the words below for anyone who doesn’t know them, and a link to the song too. Listening to it gives a far better sense of the feeling than the words alone ever could.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEeaS6fuUoA

Lovely Day

Song by Bill Withers 

When I wake up in the morning, love

And the sunlight hurts my eyes

And something without warning, love

Bears heavy on my mind

Then I look at you

And the world's alright with me

Just one look at you

And I know it's gonna be

A lovely day 

When the day that lies ahead of me

Seems impossible to face

When someone else instead of me

Always seems to know the way

Then I look at you

And the world's alright with me

Just one look at you

And I know it's gonna be

A lovely day 

When the day that lies ahead of me

Seems impossible to face

And when someone else instead of me

Always seems to know the way

Then I look at you

And the world's alright with me

Just one look at you

And I know it's gonna be

A lovely day

Today we planted spring.

 Saturday 11th October 2025

I stayed home with Mum today rather than going to the stables. A box of flower bulbs she ordered arrived the other day, and with the sunshine pouring in through the kitchen window this morning, she decided it was the perfect day to get them planted. It turned into a bit of a joint project — or perhaps more of a guided one — with Mum calling out instructions while I did the digging.

She has a way of making even the smallest task feel purposeful. I’d no sooner finished one hole before she was already deciding what colour would bloom there. There was a quiet rhythm to it all: the scrape of the trowel, the soft crumble of soil, her voice, the faint smell of autumn drifting through the air. We finished just before lunch, our handiwork tucked neatly beneath the earth, a promise of spring hidden away. As though we had just planted spring itself.

After lunch I took a bag of seed out to where Dad was drilling. I stayed with him for an hour, sitting in the cab and watching the neat lines form across the field. He doesn’t talk much when he’s working, but there’s a kind of companionship in the silence. The hum of the engine, the turning of the drill, the steady patience of it all — it gives you time to think without feeling alone. There is something comforting about sitting with dad while he is working even a word never passes between us, it doesn't seem to matter.

On the way home, I slowed by the stables and decided to stop in for a minute. Rob was there, leaning on the garden wall, and he looked genuinely pleased to see me. He even said how much he misses me being around on Saturdays, which made me smile. There was a time when that place had become to feel almost like an extension of myself — the smell of hay and leather, the sound of hooves in the yard — but lately, it feels like something I’ve stepped further back from without quite meaning to. I thought about walking across to see if Charlotte was there, but I couldn’t bring myself to. It felt as though I’d be intruding, like I was only half-belonging to something that had started to be mine.

Rob told me not to be silly, reminded me that I still own the place. He’s right, of course, but ownership and belonging aren’t always the same thing.

When I got back home, the light was already turning that soft, golden sort that settles gently over everything. The garden looked peaceful, the soil dark where we’d planted the bulbs. Mum was inside, humming to herself as she put the kettle on ready for our afternoon tea. On the way to the summerhouse I stood for a while just looking at the neat patches of earth, knowing that beneath the surface something new was waiting to grow. I have never felt that anywhere I've been before. It struck me that maybe that’s how it is with people too — sometimes you have to let a season pass quietly before something familiar starts to feel like yours again.

Quiet times.

 Today I have been on a new job. Well actually it's the same job as cultivating really but with a different implement. I've been going over the ground with the discs, as they are called, on the fields that I first did with he cultivator a few weeks back. There were a few weeds germinated so I disced them up in front of dad with the seed drill.

That's it really, there is not much of anything else to report. I've been sitting here that long trying to think of thing that my mouse has got fed up of waiting and turned itself off!

Eric has a sausage problem.

 Wednesday 8th October 2025

I had a fun time over breakfast again this morning.

The kitchen window overlooks the front yard, so when I saw Dad and Eric coming in for breakfast, I slipped through to what we call The Dairy. It’s a sort of halfway room before you enter the house proper — plain white-painted walls, an uncovered concrete floor, and home to all the white goods: the washing machine, dryer, a second fridge, and a couple of freezers. There’s also a deep sink for rinsing off the really mucky things that Mum won’t allow anywhere near her kitchen.

It’s where we change from boots to slippers and hang up coats and outdoor gear. A radiator along the wall keeps things toasty and dries off anything that’s come in wet from the fields.

It’s called The Dairy because before Dad’s time there were a few cows kept on the farm. Even non-dairy farms back then usually had a handful for milk and butter to share around the local folk.

Anyway, I had a small load of washing to do. Instead of starting it when I first brought it down from my room, I’d waited until I saw the men heading in — my excuse being to get a quiet word with Eric before Mum cornered him about the missing cookie.

I know, I know — I probably should’ve shown more loyalty to Mum. But truth be told, I feel a certain loyalty to Eric too… and Mum’s perfectly capable of defending her own cause when she needs to.

“Hey up, fatty! What you up to?” said Eric, coming over with that look that meant a rib-tickle was incoming.

“Get lost,” I said quickly, standing up to face him. “I was going to give you some critical information, but I’m not going to bother now.”

“Please yourself,” he shrugged. “There isn’t much I can’t handle on the fly anyway.”

“Ha! You’ll get your chance to prove that when Mum catches up with you about taking one of our cookies,” I told him as I followed him through to the kitchen.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said — far too casually for someone innocent. I could tell straight away he knew exactly what I meant.

Dad and Eric took up their usual places while I set my porridge oats in the microwave. Mum was dishing out the fry-up, and I carried their plates and mugs of tea to the table before joining them. All very routine.

What wasn’t routine was Mum’s silence. She didn’t mention the cookie once — not a word, not even a hint. Just the usual chatter about whether it was warm or cold out that morning. But I saw what she did.

Eric, as always, makes a big fuss about his sausages. There must be three — and his have to be the biggest (even though they’re all exactly the same). You know how men are about their sausages.

I was waiting with his plate for the third sausage when Mum said quietly, “Take that.”

I looked up at her, and she just gave me a glance — that kind of silent communication mothers have. I knew exactly what she’d done.

I set Eric’s plate down in front of him. Two sausages, right in the middle of everything else. He looked at me, prodded them, then lifted the bacon as if checking for a hidden third. His face said, There’s one missing, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

I couldn’t help smiling as I turned back to fetch my breakfast.

Eric went unusually quiet after that. I couldn’t tell whether he was expecting a telling-off or simply mourning his missing sausage, but either way, Mum had sorted him out perfectly — without saying a single word.

Mind you, I didn’t escape judgment myself. In the middle of one of my fits of grinning at Eric’s expense, Mum shot me a look.

“You can stop that grinning as well, madam,” she said. “You’re a bloomin’ traitor, sloping off to do your washing like that. You must think I was brought up by the fairies.”

Dad, who’d been quiet up till then, suddenly burst out laughing — which set the rest of us off too. Except Mum, who shook her head and said, “Bloomin’ barmy, the lot of you. I don’t know, for the love of Mike, why I put up with you all.”

“Because we love you, Mum,” I told her, giving her arm an affectionate rub.

And at that, she tried to hide her smile — but we all saw it. The kitchen felt warm and close and full of life, the laughter still lingering in the air like the smell of toast and fried bacon.

Has the Invisible Man has returned?

 Tuesday 7th October 2025

Back on the cultivator again today — nothing dramatic to report, just the steady tilling of earth beneath a grey autumn sky. It’s funny how the hum of the tractor starts to sound almost companionable after a while. The only real difference from the other cultivating days was that I was close enough to home to pop in for lunch. Not that it bothers me having it on the tractor; there’s something rather nice about stopping out in the middle of a field with the wind and nature for company. But still, it breaks the day up a bit to come home for a proper sit-down.

I made sure to finish in good time so I could join Mum for afternoon tea in the summer house. It’s become something of a little ritual now, the two of us there with our cups and the sound of the garden all around. We have a small heater in there and lights to make it nice and cosy. I got quite the surprise when I opened the bag of cookies I’d bought at the festival — one missing! There should have been three each, but no, we had to share one. Dad’s denying all knowledge, of course, though Mum is quite convinced Eric’s the culprit. She says she’ll have words with him in the morning. If it was him, then he’s very naughty indeed, considering he already had six all to himself that day! If not Eric, then maybe the Invisible Man has returned.

By the time the last crumbs were gone, the light had begun to fade to that lovely soft gold that makes everything seem gentler somehow. Mum and I lingered there a while longer, just talking quietly. There’s such comfort in these small, ordinary moments — the kind that make you glad to be exactly where you are. I think if we hadn't moved when we did I would have fallen asleep.

Afternoon delights.

 Monday 6th October 2025

It’s been back to the usual Monday routine today — house cleaning in the morning, then a bit of a treat afterwards.

Mum had an appointment for a massage this afternoon, and although it was made sound optional whether I went with her, I think it was quietly assumed that I would. The promise of afternoon tea at our favourite tearooms afterwards didn’t exactly make it a hardship.

The place was as charming as ever — soft music, the clink of china cups, and that lovely smell of fresh scones drifting from the kitchen. Mum looked quite content, glowing a little after her treatment, and we lingered over our tea for far longer than we meant to. Thankfully dad was in no hurry to finish work so we had time to prepare dinner before he was ready to eat.

I’d bought some handmade cookies at the festival yesterday, intending to have them with tea in the summerhouse this afternoon. But since we’d already indulged, they’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll last that long — they do look dangerously tempting sitting there on the sideboard.

I picked up a packet for Eric too, as a small thank you for taking me. He was most enthusiastic about them, giving them what he called a “five-star review.” Though knowing him, anything that’s even vaguely edible tends to earn top marks.

I think tomorrow will be a tea-and-cookie sort of afternoon.

His name was Clint.

 Saturday 4th October 2025

It was barely light as I crossed the yard this morning, picking my way through a scatter of dead twigs, leaves, and the various other things the wind had flung about overnight. It had been a stormy night — the first this autumn, according to the weather people — and the place looked as if it had been tossed in a washing machine.

I stood aside to let Dad trundle past with the tractor and seed drill. He gave me a cheery thumbs-up, so I blew him a kiss for his trouble.

On my way to the cow yards, I chased down a plastic bucket that was rolling around in the still-blustery wind — looking for all the world like it had grown legs but, unfortunately, no head, and more importantly no eyes to steer by. It spun in confused little circles until it bounced off something and set off on another aimless adventure. I decided to spoil its fun and caught it mid-roll, tucking it just inside a shed doorway so it could “rest up” a while.

I’d got up early to give Eric a hand feeding round if he needed one. I found him bedding one of the sheds with the tractor and straw blower. I waited until he’d finished before going over. On seeing me, he jumped down from the cab and came striding across.

“Anything I can do to help?” I asked.

He assured me he had everything under control — then said, “Did that lad find you yesterday?”

I blinked. “What lad?”

“He wouldn’t say what he wanted — just that his name was Clint and that he’d pop back again. Asked when was best to catch you, so I told him sometime before nine or after five.”

“What did he look like?” I asked, though the name meant nothing to me. I’ve never known anyone called Clint.

Eric shrugged. “Similar size and build to me. Fit-looking, but not as smart — needed a shave, for a start.”

Well, given that Eric rates himself as both fit and smart, I didn’t put too much stock in that description. I was no wiser about who Clint was — or why he hadn’t reappeared after five.

Thankfully, the big shed — the one you have to drive into — was empty of cattle. I’ve got a bit of a complex about that place after my first encounter with it. It’s usually just an overflow shed, they tell me, so most of the time it’s full of machinery rather than anything living.

I wandered around for a while, trying to make friends with any of the cows that looked open to the idea, but most were far too absorbed in breakfast to care. After a few half-hearted attempts at conversation, I gave up on finding “Billy No-Mates” and went back to Eric.

“I’m going to start breakfast if you don’t need me,” I told him — more to let him know I was safely out of the way than anything else. It saves him wondering whether I’m still wandering about somewhere, trying out chat-up lines on the cows.

“Would you like us to make you something before you go?” I asked.

“No, it’s okay, thanks. I’ve to get back — the Mrs has a list of jobs as long as my arm waiting for me.” He grinned, then added, “She says that since I’m spending all my time on Sunday with my fancy piece, the least I can do is spend all Saturday running round after her!”

“That’s what you get for being a heart-throb, Eric,” I teased.

“Aye, well, there’s got to be some payback for the hours of fitness training I do — or what’s the point?” he said, rubbing his well-rounded beer belly. I suspect Eric confuses the pub for the gym.

I laughed and left him to it, knowing he’d soon be heading off to his long list of “Mrs-approved” chores.

Since it was only Mum and me for breakfast, I knew she wouldn’t bother with a fry-up. I got everything ready so that when she came down, all she had to do was choose what she fancied. I told her to sit down and I’d fix it for her. She settled on toast and a bowl of porridge — “something to put on my bones,” she said, “given the look of the weather this morning.”

My mystery man never appeared, either before nine or after five, so I’m still none the wiser — and a little uneasy. Perhaps he had the wrong place and has since found the right one.

Still, as the wind dropped away this evening and the smell of woodsmoke drifted in from somewhere down the lane, the yard seemed to settle again — quiet, familiar, and full of that comfortable, end-of-day peace that always finds its way here in the end.

So another week draws gently to a close.

 Friday 3rd October 2025

It’s been quite a quiet sort of day today — the kind that slips along gently without much to stir it.

Even breakfast was fairly subdued once Eric had finished pulling my leg about giving up farming and going into the haulage business. He said I’d be better off behind a steering wheel than a tractor, though I think he only said it to get a rise out of me. I told him he could keep his lorries — I’ll take a field over a dual carriageway any day.

After that, most of the talking was between Dad and Eric. They were going through what needed doing, sorting the cattle that were due to be taken away. Eric was to get as much as he could done before the weekend, as Dad wants to press on with the drilling. We’re a bit behind after waiting for the new tractor and the long dry spell, and though it’s nothing too worrying yet, Dad’s keeping a close eye on the weather. Now it’s started raining again, he’s half afraid it won’t know when to stop, so he’s eager to get as much seed in as he can while the ground’s right.

It was agreed that Eric would come in to feed over the weekend, and I’d lend a hand if he needed it. That way dad could get going first thing in the morning. My own orders were to go and cultivate the field beside the one I worked on Tuesday — which suited me perfectly. There’s something wonderfully steadying about that job: the throb of the tractor, the nature, the smell of damp soil rising in the air. The world feels smaller and quieter out there, and somehow more my own.

I managed to finish in good time, which was a good thing as it was turning quite nasty with wind and rain. I came in to find Mum setting out tea in the summer house. She’d laid her best china with a plate of little biscuits beside it. We sat there together, listening to the dripping from the apple tree branches that hang over the summer house as we were talking about everything and nothing, content just to be.

By the time we came back indoors, the lamps were glowing softly through the windows and in contrast to the outside, the house had that warm, peaceful feel that makes a day seem properly finished.

And so another week draws gently to a close, the fields worked, the house calm, and my heart quietly full.

A Ride in the Grain Truck

 Thursday 2nd October 2025

I’ve had quite a different sort of day today. It began over breakfast when Dad said that we had two loads of grain going out and asked if I’d like to have a go at loading them up. At first I wasn’t sure. Part of me would have rather stuck with the cultivator, which I know and enjoy, but then I thought that since I’d never done it before, maybe it was time to learn. So, with a little hesitation but also a bit of curiosity, I agreed.

It helped that the trucker wasn’t some complete stranger. Dad and Eric know Kev well, so when he rolled into the yard just before eleven, everything was relaxed and good-natured. Even so, my nerves were jangling. Don’t ask me why—I just get that way with new things.

Dad had already disappeared off, but Eric stayed close by for the first bit, making sure I was getting the hang of it. Kev was brilliant too, calling out helpful advice. For instance, from inside the loader you can’t really tell how full the trailer is, so Kev was my eyes on the ground, while Eric had already given me a rough number of buckets to aim for in each section. To my relief, it all worked out exactly right.

When I was done, I was all set to head back to the house to see Mum, but as I asked Kev what time he’d be back for the second load, he surprised me by inviting me to ride along to the mill with him. Just for the experience, he said. Well, I rather liked the sound of that. Mum gave her blessing—though not without tossing in a warning about “no funny business”! I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant, but I let it pass saying, "Don't worry mum, I'm not feeling in a funny mood today."

Climbing up into the truck cab was like stepping into another world. The first thing I noticed was how limited the view was compared with my tractor. I’m used to seeing almost everything around me—360 degrees, up and down—but in the truck, my field of vision was halved at best, with so much depending on the mirrors. From where I was sat, I could only see maybe ten or twenty yards ahead. Kev, being taller, probably had a clearer view, but still—it gave me a new respect for the skill involved. Not that he seemed to struggle; he drove with an easy confidence.

The trip turned out to be great fun. Kev kept up a steady stream of explanations about the truck and what he was watching for on the road, which made the whole ride feel like a lesson as well as an adventure. And then he treated me to dinner—nothing fancy, just a Coke and a burger from a roadside stall—but it felt like the perfect finishing touch. He joked that he knew how to spoil a girl, and I laughed.

By the time we got back, it was time to load him up again, and then I waved him off with thanks before heading straight into the summer house for afternoon tea with Mum. After the rattle of the truck and the roar of the road, the quiet clink of teacups in the soft light felt especially comforting—like settling back into the heart of home after a small adventure.

A muddling-along sort of day.

 Wednesday 1st October 2025

Rain first thing this morning, so it was decided that cultivating could wait. I didn’t mind too much—I wandered out after breakfast and spent a happy hour or so fussing over my tractor. A bit of polishing here, a wipe down there… nothing too serious, but it makes me feel as though I’m keeping her in good order, ready for when the weather decides to play fair again.

After lunch Dad rang—could I fetch him a bag of seed? Off I went, and ended up riding with him on the tractor for a little while. I like those moments, just the steady hum of the engine and Dad concentrating at the controls. Eventually duty called—I had to get the telehandler back to the yard so that Eric could feed round.

The best part of the day, though, came later. For the first time in what feels like weeks, Mum and I managed afternoon tea together in the summer house. Just the two of us, the rain tapping gently on the roof, and no pressing jobs to rush off to. We talked about nothing and everything, as only we can. I do so treasure those quiet snatches of time with her.

So yes, it has been something of a lazy, muddling-along sort of day. And yet—I think I prefer the steady rhythm of being busy from morning till night. Still, I wouldn’t trade those cosy minutes with Mum for anything. They linger in the heart long after the day itself has gone.

A Neighbour in a Ditch.

 Tuesday 30th September 2025

I was back to farming again today. A couple of weeks ago Dad and I were all set to cultivate one of the fields ready for sowing, but he decided at the last minute that the ground was far too dry. So, we left it alone and waited on the weather. Now, after that bit of rain we had a few days back, he judged it right and proper for running the cultivator over.

Everything went smoothly through the morning—steady work, the sort that lets your mind wander while the tractors six cylinders purr, and the machine chatters along behind. After lunch though, things took a turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone walking across the field towards me. At first I thought it odd—people don’t usually come traipsing across when you’re working. On Eric's advice I keep a hammer by the side of my seat in case of something in needed of hitting, and secondly as a defence against unwanted attention from persistent visitors. It turned out though to be one of our neighbours, so the hammer remained stowed and out of sight. He’d been cutting around his field boundary when his tractor slid into a ditch and got itself hopelessly stuck.

Seeing me close by, he came over to ask for a bit of help. Well, I was glad enough to oblige. On the proviso that he didn't start on the seemingly usual road of questioning my age or abilities. I dropped off the cultivator, and I drove round to where his tractor was resting in the ditch at a rather sorry angle. Good job there’s always a length of wire rope wrapped round the weight block on my tractor—that rope has probably been someone's saviour more than once. Hence it being a permanent resident on the front of my tractor. We fastened it up and, once everything was secure, I eased the power on. I loved the feel of the tyres biting down into the earth, the whole machine sitting down on it's haunches as it pulled forward, as though it knew what I wanted. Bit by bit, with a steady pull, the other tractor clambered free of the ditch like a stubborn old cow finally deciding to move.

The neighbour was mighty pleased, saying I’d saved him no end of time and bother. I have to admit, it gave me a bit of quiet pride too, knowing I’d turned a sticky situation into an easy fix. I secretly felt very proud of my tractor too.

On telling the story during dinner, dad said, "It does a person good to help others—especially neighbours. You never know when you might find yourself needing a hand in return."

The pie department.

 Monday 29th September 2025

The first thing out of Eric’s mouth this morning, when he came in for breakfast with Dad, was:

“Okay, where’s my apple pie then?”

I can’t decide whether he and Dad have been plotting together or whether Eric happened to bump into Rob over the weekend. Either way, I think he was hoping to catch me short in the pie department.

Fortunately, there was still some of our apple pie left over from yesterday. I told him he wasn’t having it for breakfast and would have to wait until lunchtime.

Mum gave me one of her knowing looks, the kind that speaks volumes without her saying a word, while Dad chuckled and said,

“You’ll have to get up earlier than that to catch my girl out, Eric.”

There’s a way Dad shows his pride in me that is so plain, yet never overbearing. It always settles quietly inside me, warm and steady.

Eric laughed and shook his head.

“I think if I stayed up all night, I still wouldn’t catch this one out.”

I told him, “I don’t know why you go to so much trouble. You might have guessed I’d put some by for you.”

Of course, the truth was that it was nothing but pure luck there was any left — but I wasn’t about to admit that.

And so the kitchen filled with the sound of easy laughter, Mum smiling softly over her teacup, Dad enjoying the banter, and Eric pleased with his small victory of teasing me. It was one of those moments that stitched itself quietly into the fabric of home life — simple, cheerful, and warm. Breakfast time really is one the highlights of my day.

About Rob.

 Sunday 28th September 2025.

After I recently mentioned taking a pie to Rob, I was asked for more details about him, so I thought I would do so today.

I often mention Rob in relation to the stables, and that is because he lives in the house at the stables. The stables were once part of a farm in their own right, farmed by Rob’s family. When his mum and dad decided they wanted to retire, and with Rob having no interest in farming, they gave it up. They sold the land and the farmyard but kept the house for themselves and for Rob to live in. As my parents’ land bordered theirs, it made sense for them to strike up a deal, and that is how we ended up with what we now call the stables.

I’m not sure of the exact timescale, but eventually Mum took over the farmyard for her horse business. She offered livery for other people’s horses and also used her own horses for treks around the farm and riding lessons.

As I said, Rob never had much interest in farming. Instead, he preferred working for the local country estate. He went there straight from school and never worked anywhere else, staying until his retirement just a couple of years ago. Now he spends his time in his garden, which seems to occupy him non-stop, only ever driven indoors by the dark.

I first met Rob when I went to help at the stables on Saturdays. Mum insisted I go to meet people my own age. The first person I ended up making friends with, though, was Rob! I did eventually make some friends my own age, but Rob remained my anchor.

I’m drawn to him because he is steady and reliable—always there, always ready to help. No matter what I bring to him, I never feel like I’m a bother. Quite the opposite, in fact. My biggest grumble or problem, or a freshly baked pie—it’s all greeted the same. With all those young girls at the stables, things could at times be a little toxic, full of squabbling over who was riding which horse. When it all got too much, I’d take my lunch to Rob’s. Even if we didn’t talk much, I always came away calmer, steadier, more able to face the afternoon.

That’s Rob, really. Content in his own world, yet with a calmness that rubs off on you. His advice is always forthcoming, given freely, and without strings attached. He makes you feel it’s meant just for you, no hidden motives—just quiet wisdom from a man at peace with his place in life.

And so I always leave Rob’s with a little of that peace tucked under my arm, like the last warmth of the sun carried home in your coat. By the time I’m back in the kitchen with Mum or out in the yard with Dad, I feel steadier—ready again to take on the day, and glad to have someone so quietly dependable just over the way.

A golden little thread.

 Saturday 27th September 2025

“What are your plans for today?” Mum asked as I came into the kitchen this morning, still half-blurred with sleep. She was already busy sorting out breakfast. I say sorting out for everyone else, because in truth it’s only “we” in the loosest sense—I always stick with porridge, while the others tuck into what’s grandly called a full English.

The question caught me off guard. I honestly think it’s the first time since being here that the decision of how to spend my day has been placed directly into my own hands. Normally, Mum and Dad have a knack for seeing that my hours are spoken for before I’ve even realised it. It’s not something I’ve ever minded; I’ve always been content to follow along. But standing there this morning with my mouth half open and no quick answer at the ready, I suddenly found myself aware of the choice—and a little lost because of it.

Mum, of course, didn’t leave me stranded for long. A couple of seconds of silence was more than enough for her to step in with ideas, for which I was secretly grateful.

“If you aren’t going to the stables, how about making yourself useful by stewing some pears and those windfall apples from the garden for freezing?”

I wasn’t sure what stewing fruit involved, but it sounded a lot easier than trying to puzzle out my own plans.

“Yes, sure,” I said, probably a bit too relieved.

“You mean, yes Mum, that’s a good idea. I’m sure they’ll come in very useful for pies and suchlike next year.” She has this way of gently pulling me up whenever my words veer into what she calls “lazy speak.”

So I grinned and gave her my best tongue-in-cheek reply:

“What a wonderful idea, Mum. You do come up with the best suggestions. I’d be delighted to do that little job for you.”

“Less of your cheek, young madam,” she said with a smile that gave her away.

And just like that, the whole exchange turned into a bit of fun, the kind that sets a cheerful tone for the day ahead.

By the time I’d finished, there were six neat bags of stewed fruit for the freezer—two of apples, two of pears, and two mixed. And as a bonus, enough left over for a pair of pies: one for our lunch tomorrow, and one I carried down to Rob at the stables in the afternoon.

Two pans of fruit ready for cooking, I refill both pans twice more.

It was a simple sort of day, the kind where small jobs fill the hours without fuss or hurry. And as the light began to dip, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet contentment: One pie delivered and one on the counter waiting to be eaten, Mum pleased with the freezer now stocked for winter, and me glad to have been part of it all. A golden little thread of homeliness woven into the fabric of the day.

Something worth remembering.

 Friday 26th September 2025

I didn’t bother making an entry yesterday, as it was nothing but ploughing from eleven till almost dusk with hardly a breath in between. Even black bin day failed to provide any entertainment—no whacky races to watch this week. Honestly, I could do with Nigel back to stir things up a little! Then again, if he did return, I’d no doubt be grumbling that life had become too spicy. There’s no pleasing me sometimes.

Something worth remembering happened last night though, while the three of us were sat around the dinner table. Mum remarked on how quickly the evenings are closing in now; it felt like we had only just finished summer, and here we are already eating under lamplight. We all agreed with her, nodding like we always do when mum spreads her wisdom.

Then Dad turned to me with that thoughtful look of his and said, “You do realise that if it wasn’t for the work you’re doing, I’d still be out there in the fields until bedtime?”

I wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at, nor what reply he was expecting. All I managed was a wry, “Well, I’m glad I have my uses.”

But he pressed on, serious this time. “No, Katie. If you hadn’t done what you’ve done this week, I would have to be out there myself.”

That stopped me for a moment. “Ah! Thanks, Dad. What’s brought this on?”

He leaned back a little and explained, “You were worrying the other week when I bought the new tractor—that I didn’t have yours to trade in, and that it was somehow a burden. But it’s no hardship at all. You’re making it earn its keep, and that’s all that matters.”

Before I could answer, Mum chimed in with her quiet smile. “It’s worth it to me just to have some company of an evening.”

That settled it. And sitting there with both of them, with the lamplight soft around the kitchen, I felt something I can’t quite put into words. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was belonging—or maybe it was just the simple joy of knowing I am needed and appreciated. Whatever it was, it wrapped around me like a blanket.

As for me, it’s most certainly worth it too. I get to spend my days doing what I love, and my evenings tucked in at home with the two people I love most. Tractors and family—it doesn’t sound much, but to me it’s everything.

“a damage limitation exercise.”

 Wednesday 24th September 2025

Dad has been in touch with Mr Booth today at some point. That doesn’t sound too promising, does it?! Mr Booth, for the uninitiated, is something of an eccentric agronomist who advises several farms around here, including ours. He’s very much the image of a nutty professor—hair sticking out in all directions except for the fringe which never seem to get ruffled, glasses forever sliding down his nose, and a habit of talking as if the crops themselves are whispering in his ear. Brilliant in his field, but more than a little alarming behind the wheel.

Apparently, he’s had what he insists on calling “a damage limitation exercise.” To everyone else it was more like a brush with catastrophe. He was driving down the road when, on rounding a bend (probably on two wheels), he came upon a narrow bridge just as a car was coming the other way. Instead of slowing down like a normal person, he veered down the bank beside the bridge, bounced across the river—which luckily was more a shallow trickle than a torrent—and only came to grief when the opposite bank defeated him.

A local farmer had to tow him out, and although the front of his truck looked a bit battered, he drove away as though nothing untoward had happened. His passenger, however, had had enough. He refused point-blank to get back in, preferring to walk home while loudly declaring that Mr Booth was a lunatic. Booth’s defence? He explained that momentum was essential to climb the far bank, and since he hadn’t made it, it only proved he wasn’t going fast enough. Slowing down had never been an option. I can believe that.

Over dinner, Dad relayed the whole saga with a grin, clearly amused. Mum, however, was far from impressed. She threw Dad one of her “I told you so” looks and said again that he ought to find someone more sensible to advise us. Dad just chuckled and shook his head, saying what he always says—that Booth may be crazy, but he’s the best agronomist around and worth putting up with. I can see both sides: Mum frets about his antics, but Dad trusts him because, in the end, the fields always thrive under his guidance.

As for me, my own day was rather more peaceful. I was back ploughing, and it’s been one of those warm, golden autumn days where the sun softens everything. My mood has been light and happy, and I’ve enjoyed the time alone to let my thoughts wander as I sang along to the radio. That’s the beauty of being on the tractor—no one can hear you, so you can sing as loudly and badly as you like.

Meanwhile, Dad has been sowing seeds with his new tractor, and he could hardly stop talking about how well it’s working. He looked downright pleased with himself at dinner. Mum rolled her eyes at the machinery talk, muttering that I’d do better to learn a new recipe or sit with her knitting. I can’t help but find it all amusing. Dad and his tractors, Mum and her homemaking—different worlds, yet both dear to me. And me, somewhere between them, I feel lucky to belong to both.

A Landmark Day.

 23rd September 2025.

Today was a bit of a landmark – we took delivery of Dad’s new tractor. Quite an occasion, really, with even Mum leaving her usual business to step outside for a little look. She gave it a once-over, smiled politely, but when I tried to coax her into having a sit in the cab she just shook her head. According to her, she had “more important things to do than play around with tractors.”

It wasn’t until lunchtime that we discovered what those “more important things” were. The house was full of the rich, spicy scent of Christmas, as Mum had been busy turning the cake mixture into proper Christmas cakes. They were just starting to bake, and the smell was nothing short of glorious. Eric and I both made noises about having a slice straightaway, but Mum quickly reminded me of the little incident yesterday when I tried sneaking a bit of Christmas pudding before it had cooled. Lesson learned—I decided to wait this time.

Before wrapping up for the days work, if one could call it that, Dad and I set to and hitched the seed drill onto his shiny new tractor, while the plough was fitted back on mine, ready for the morning. With a bit of luck, I’ll be back ploughing again tomorrow.

Feather Dusters and Boiling Puddings.

 Monday 22nd September 2025

When Eric came in for breakfast with Dad this morning, he tried winding me up straight away. He said he was “awfully sorry” about getting the inside of my tractor cab filthy with cow muck and mud. Honestly, he must think I was born yesterday if he thought I hadn’t checked since they’d had it on Friday! The first thing I did on Saturday morning was wander up the yard to see what they’d been doing with the seed drill and to inspect my tractor. They’d looked after it very well, actually. I’m convinced Dad even took his boots off, because the cab carpet was spotless.

“You need to get it cleaned then, Eric,” I told him.

He just laughed and said he’d get right on it — which I doubt very much even if they had messed it up!

After breakfast, Mum and I set about the usual Monday house-cleaning. The new feather duster made its grand debut, although I didn’t get a chance to try it — Mum was far too busy playing with her new toy, like she’d been waiting her whole life for the excuse. My job, apart from the usual vacuuming, was to keep an eye on the Christmas puddings we made on Saturday. They had to boil for hours — six or seven depending on the size — with the pans topped up constantly with water so they didn’t burn. It felt like half the day was spent carrying the kettle back and forth.

Eric came in at lunchtime and immediately started sniffing the air. “Smells like burning in here!” he said, eyes twinkling. “Better let me have that burnt pudding, it would be a shame to see it go to waste.” Mum told him to clear off and get on with his lunch before I ended up throwing a pudding at him.

I finished Christmas pudding.

Five Christmas puddings. We are going to sample the one in the container before Christmas.

Once the puddings were finally cooling, Mum decided we might as well get the Christmas cake mixture underway. That meant a trip out for whiskey (since Dad had drunk the last drop!) and a few other odds and ends. I teased Mum that Dad would have to make do with licking the cake tin, same as the pudding bowl. She just gave me that dry little smile of hers and told me to mind my tongue as he doesn't need any encouragement from me.

Christmas cake mixture.

Speaking of tongues — mine is still sore. I couldn’t resist sneaking a piece of pudding that broke off when we tipped one of the bowls out. It was still red hot, and I managed to burn myself before I could taste much of anything. Mum laughed and said it served me right. She’s probably right, but at least she’s put a small pudding aside for us to try before Christmas. I can’t wait for that — provided I don’t scorch my tongue off first. I've never had a homemade Christmas pudding before.

Sunday Surprises and Vanishing Whiskey

 “Katie, Are you ready? We have to go!” came Mum’s voice from downstairs. She was right of course. I’d completely lost track of time replying to messages and fiddling about with my diary. Off to church we went. It all felt much better than last week – I was more relaxed and even managed to enjoy the chat over tea and biscuits afterwards.

On the way back, I didn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. I just gave the car horn a good blast, and out came Dad like a well-trained… well, something-or-other. We were due up at Uncle Ken’s for Sunday lunch, and when Uncle Ken says lunch is at one, you’d better be there at one. To soon and you'll fill in time by pulling lambs from unmentionable places. To late, and you'll have no Yorkshire pudding on your plate.

After the roast and pudding, everyone lingered around the table, finishing off their wine and chatting. That’s when I overheard something I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear: apparently Kimberly had been on a date with Nigel – or “that lad” who worked with us at harvest, as they called him. I nearly dropped my glass. Surely not Nigel? Surely not now? I couldn’t quite pin down when this supposed date happened. I’m hoping it was before his little trips to shopping centres and photo jaunts with Charlotte. Otherwise, someone’s heading for trouble, and I’d rather not picture it.

We were home by five. Dad got changed and went out to check the cattle in the yard, while Mum and I cobbled together a light salad for dinner – which was all any of us needed after the feast at Uncle Ken’s.

There wasn’t really enough light left for a proper cycle ride, so I just wandered along the riverbank. The sky was already bruising into dusk by the time I got back.

Later, I settled on the sofa with Dad to watch one of his crime dramas. He had his glass of whiskey in hand – his last glass, actually. Between Mum’s puddings and his evening “detective work,” that bottle didn’t stand a chance

A Pudding Plot and a Whiskey Shortage.

 Saturday 20th September 2025.

“Perhaps next time Dad takes a sip, he’ll wonder if it tastes of raisins.”

I was up early enough this morning to sneak into Mum’s bed for a while. I must confess, it was for my own ends more than for Mum’s pleasure this time. I wanted to see if I could wriggle out of going to the stables.

So, after a suitable amount of time lying there quietly, when I thought the moment was right, I asked, “Mum, would you mind if I gave the stables a miss this week?”

“Yes of course you can. I’m surprised you’ve been going anyway since you’ve been doing work for your dad,” she replied.

I thought to myself, Well, thanks for telling me, Mum! There’s me, dragging myself off each week thinking I was still obliged to go. Of course, I kept that part to myself and instead said how it would be nice to spend the day together. She gave me a hug and a kiss.

While I was getting breakfast ready, Mum asked how I fancied making a start on the Christmas puddings. I liked the sound of that very much. I know Christmas is still a long way off, but apparently they’ll keep for several years once made. This is the first time I’ve lived somewhere that bothers with making their own puddings.

So, after breakfast was done and dusted, Mum and I set off to the supermarket to gather everything we needed. It made me feel quite optimistic about the months ahead. Even at the best of times, I don’t remember my parents ever doing much for Christmas, apart from buying in a few extra drinks or the odd different food. But Mum here is something else. Back at Easter I’d already been told how she goes above and beyond with decorating the house, so now I can’t wait to see what she does for Christmas.

We got all the mixture made, and now it’s sitting in a big bowl on the pantry shelf, soaking up nearly all of Dad’s whiskey. We took pity on him and saved just enough for him to have a little sip in the evenings this weekend. I’m not sure what he’ll do after that, unless Mum plans on another shopping trip. He might just have to settle for licking the pudding bowl instead. Mind you, considering how much whiskey we tipped in, he’ll still get a decent taste of it that way!

From Seed Drills to Garden Centres.

Friday 19th September 2025

Dad decided this morning that some of the parts on the seed drill needed replacing. He says the new tractor should be arriving next week, and once that happens he’ll want to get going with the drilling. Some of the drill parts still had some wear in them but would need changing before the season ended, so since we’re already a little late starting, he thought it best to swap them out now rather than lose a day later on.

After breakfast he had me take the plough off my tractor so he could hitch up the drill and bring it out of the barn. Once I’d got that done, he sent me off to collect the parts he’d ordered. By the time I got back, he’d already attached the drill to my tractor and was busy setting it up.

Then, to my surprise, he told me to take the rest of the day off and spend some time with Mum. I was hoping to help with replacing the parts. When I went inside, I found mum huffing and puffing over the ironing, declaring (not for the first time) that half her life seems to be spent doing it. I could see then why dad perhaps thought my time was better spent with mum. So I suggested we go out to the garden center and have some lunch. Mum does love garden centers — especially the eating part.

As I was ready before her, I quickly made Dad and Eric some sandwiches to keep them going. Then off we went. Mum had a Mediterranean salad for lunch, I had a big plate of fish and chips! Hardly elegant, but very satisfying. Afterwards, we wandered around the plants and displays. They’d already put up some Christmas decorations, which felt all wrong in September, though they were pretty in their own way.

Back at home, I only meant to change out of my clothes, but I made the mistake of lying down on my bed and promptly fell asleep for an entire hour. I must have needed it.

Since our lunch had been quite filling, Mum and I just had a light dinner later on. That meant we were done nice and early, so I asked if they minded me going out on my bike while there was still a bit of daylight. I love cycling after dinner, though I know there won’t be many more evenings left for it now the nights are drawing in.

All in all, it felt like a good day — a proper mix of farm work, family time, and a little freedom of my own.