THE girl who cuts my hair is called Trish Brown. When I say girl, she’s more of a woman these days as I’ve known her a long time; time she’s spent gaining experience with one of the best hairdressing chains in the land before, a couple of years ago, opening her own salon in Darlington and charging realistic prices.

She’s become a successful business person in her own right and that’s in part because she knows what she’s doing and, therefore, gives her customers confidence.

What she doesn’t do is cook up her own shampoos and other hair treatments. Apart from being extremely time-consuming she’d be rubbish at it. I know that because we can’t all be good at everything. So she leaves making hair products to the experts.

But it’s taken me a good few decades to discover the same thing for myself. I always thought, though maybe not admitted, that I could be the master of anything I put my hand to. For instance, I didn’t headline at Glastonbury this year but only because I didn’t get around to it.

So, sheep shearing should be a doddle then, shouldn’t it? I mean, it’s only an addendum to farming; a service that’s contracted in every now and then.

In my quest to be able to talk on a level with all the farmers that supply Oldfields Eating House directly, I’ve convinced myself that whatever they can do, I can do it too – albeit on a much smaller scale. The theory being that if I have a little knowledge of what they have a lot, we’ve some common ground for conversation and the prospect of a smidgen of respect from those with generations of experience.