No man’s land

Across the post-Christmas, toy strewn wasteland, a truce is declared. Trench warfare began almost immediately after pere Noël left, and with the family's bruises beginning to blossom, a white flag is raised and waved from behind the sofa. The magazine of his new, automatic fire Nerf gun empty, number 2 son now has no option other than to come outside and muck out the fields. The mountain of lego, dvd's and assorted presents have all had a serious workout (unlike you and your rapidly expanding waistline) – so it's time to leave behind the mince pies and brave the world beyond wi fi and yet another Sky movie.

Despite the time of year, the afternoon temperature is in the balmy low teens, and the combination of hefting barrows full of horse poo and chasing after escapee dogs means a jacket is surplus to requirements. And having foolishly taken a couple of days off non urgent jobs, you find the deer have (once again) run through the electric fence, the boar have had fun grubbing up your newly planted saplings and (thanks to the smallest terrier burrowing into their pen), the bloody hens keep escaping. Great.
The boys rapidly tire of their chores, the lure of yet more sweets and the opportunity to kill off a few hundred x-box zombies too much to bear. In the spirit of the season and to avoid argument, your by now not very helpful helpers are dismissed from duty. So, as per, it's down to dad to fix stuff. Posts, wire, drills, hammers and spades are duly loaded onto the quad and, squinting into the low winter sun, off you head across the fields. And as the light fades, you revisit the muddy wallows and churned up turf left behind by M Sanglier et famille. Not quite no man's land perhaps – but until the chocolate runs out, definitely no kids land.