At the first hint of autumn, as the dews grew heavier in late August, I ordered a selection of tulip bulbs. I chose crimson, black-red and scarlet tulips with a few varieties in apricot and peach tones to highlight the others’ dark glamour. The bulbs were delivered in October, neatly packaged in brown paper bags rolled closed at the top, and I stored them in the cool of the garage until it was time to layer the blubs in pots to make a dramatic display in the spring.

I am in disgrace at the farm. Again. Despite my best efforts to be just a little bit useful during these cold and soggy winter months, I keep getting it wrong. As it turns out, the most helpful thing that I can do as a volunteer labourer is to labour, in silence.

It feels to me as if this Covid year has brought us face to face with our identities. While we have been locked down and regulated by tiers, our movements governed by fear and social responsibility, our longings have revealed what matters most in our lives and therefore who we are. I am conscious that we have all learnt what we most cherish by its absence.

My sister tells me that I am a fixer. And she is right. I am the daughter of a fixer and I am pretty sure that one of the nucleotides in the spiral helix of my DNA is named ‘Fixing’.