We’ve spent decades inheriting dozens of middleof-nowhere farms with overgrown fields and abandoned sheds in desperate need of rehabilitation. On acres of forgotten land, we’ve methodically tilled, planted and harvested until we’ve grown popular with the locals. Our reputation as an expert farmer earns us a modest living, and we’re often up ploughing before sunrise, sometimes working until a neighbour finds us face-down in a pile of turnips.
Just kidding. We can hardly keep a cactus alive – though if we’re allowed to count time spent in the résumé still stands. Some of our earliest “just five more minutes” pleas were so we could stay glued to eager to see another heart event,
