I have a confession to make but I’d like you to keep it quiet. If word got out about this, I’d never live it down because my carefully cultivated image as a tough, swaggering full-blooded male would be in tatters. But confession is good for the soul, so here goes.

I actually read Miriam’s problem page in the Irish Country Living section, not always, but most weeks - it depends on the headline. But recently in Miriam’s column there were a lot of letters from wives and girlfriends about the farm coming first in their relationship. Apparently it’s a big problem and not conducive to a good relationship with the other half. On the scale of awfulness it appears it’s on a par with chronic BO, flatulence and other non-endearing qualities. I can’t for the life of me understand why this should be so. You see, every male farmer who is true to the species is genetically programmed to look after the farm first. Even in Africa where the tribal elder spends the day smoking and talking, the land comes first - even if he has a dozen wives and loves each one more than the one before, it’s the same.

The farm is a close first in my relationship with Mrs P and this was gently made obvious to her from the beginning. For starters, courting was a seasonal activity. Courting stopped in the springtime because there was urgent work to be done in the fields. It wouldn’t have mattered if I was courting Michelle Pfeiffer or Sigourney Weaver (this was the 1980s), they’d have to wait until I was less busy. And come the harvest, there was another courting cessation. However, if the harvest weather was dicky, courting might resume for a pleasant evening or two. So the future Mrs P was under no illusions from the beginning and was supportive. But, you see, she was no townie but a farmer’s daughter and already knew the score. You wouldn’t have found her father on the beach building sandcastles, supposedly bonding with the kids if there was work to be done.

We were married in freezing fog in January because there was nothing happening in the fields and I made doubly sure there were no children’s birthdays during harvest.

Our first and last child both arrived on the 22nd September, which was clever and Tory arrived in December which was even cleverer but Rachel was born on the 31st March which wasn’t brilliant timing. Thankfully it was a very wet day and so I was present.

But if I had been sowing, you’d need to have given me an epidural to induce me out of the tractor cab. Now, if there are any female readers left still reading this column, do understand that while I may appear to be a horrible selfish boor, I’m really just a lovely typical farmer. And I say to Miriam’s readers to understand that practically nothing will separate us from the farm if there’s work to be done. Particularly at harvest. He doesn’t love you any the less for it. It’s a funny way of showing it, I know, but that’s the way it is. If you can’t accept it, find yourself a fellow from a non-vocational profession. Or ask Miriam.

Can I be serious, I hear you ask? Oh, I’ll let you decide. But it may help you to know that right now I’m in harvest mode, the oats are cut (3.38 tonnes/acre) and nothing will stop me from combining the oilseed rape which is ready. Bar the weather or a breakdown.