I’m beyond delighted to tell you that in late September, Falling for a Farmer, the book, will be published by the Mercier Press and available for purchase “in all good book shops,” as the saying goes.

I don’t normally do book reviews, however, when Lorna asked me if I’d consider writing one for her, I was happy to oblige.

First thing on Friday morning, I was in the hotel when my phone buzzed with a text from Jack: “I’m in agony. I think I’ve dislocated the hip.”

It’s a funny feeling when a moment you’ve dreamed about your whole life, imagined, and built up is suddenly imminent. I wanted to push pause. I wanted to slow everything down so that I wouldn’t miss a second of it.

After months of hard graft, and quite literally, blood, sweat, and sometimes, something close to tears, it was time to discover if their labour would pay off. I knew how hard Jack worked, and I willed the bidding to reflect that.

I hoped those seated before me wouldn’t notice my hands trembling as I raised the page and began to read . . .

As an occasional contributor to RTÉ’ Radio One’s “CountryWide” programme, I was delighted when they invited me to be a part of its Culture Night special — a live recording in the beautiful Chapel Royal at Dublin Castle.

. . . their banter got me to thinking about how my life now differs from theirs by virtue of being in a relationship with a farmer.

Interestingly enough, I haven’t seen much of Jack in the days since the broadcast . . . He’s “at the silage,” he tells me, but I wonder if this isn’t a pay-back of sorts! 

There comes a time in every relationship when the couple’s parents must meet. Having just passed the three year mark, and with me now firmly rooted in Kildare, Jack and I recently decided that for us, that time had come.

I knew that the more I thought about it, the nervier I would get. There was nothing else for it: I bid farewell to my recently manicured hand, and took the plunge.

So, when he asked if I could swing a day off work to attend day three of the world-famous Punchestown Festival, I was, of course (and you’ll forgive me for this. . . .) chomping at the bit.