The kettle clicks off at about half six. First, a mug of coffee and a quick look out the window to see what sort of day it’s shaping up to be. Then, a glance at the forecast, a quick scroll to see what folk are saying about trade, and a skim through the farming press. Before emails, before meetings and before any policy papers, I like that quiet ten minutes. Farming doesn’t run to office hours, and neither do marts.
By eight-thirty I’m at my desk with my laptop open and the inbox is already busy. There’ll be messages from auctioneers with questions about new rules, concerns over livestock movements, and notes from marts gearing up for another busy sale day. It’s a job that sits bang in the middle of traditional market work on one side, and policy and politics on the other.
Mid-mornings are often spent drafting a response to a government consultation. Some of the consultations are that dense and technical you’d swear whoever wrote it had never set foot in a draughty sale ring. I’ve seen how it works on the ground. If a rule won’t work in a mart, it won’t work, simple as that, and it’s my job to tell them.
Then there’s a team call. Someone forgets to mute their microphone, somebody’s dog kicks off in background, that’s office life these days. We’ll cover everything from animal welfare and disease to digital traceability, staffing pressures in rural areas, and what physical markets need to look like going forward. I’ll listen first, then chip in when it matters because there’s nothing to be gained making changes just for the sake of it. We’ve been at this a long time, and if we’re doing something different, it needs to be for right reasons.
Lunch is usually a quick sandwich at my desk more often than not, unless I’m on road and I’ll treat myself to something in the mart canteen. Heading to a market is the best bit of the job, getting out to see auctioneers, farmers and buyers. The sound of the ring, nods and hand signals, and listening to the auctioneer. This is where policy stops being words on paper and turns into real life. Over a brew in the canteen, you soon hear what’ll work and what won’t, usually with a bit of banter about rules dreamed up by folk who’ve never handled sheep or cattle.
Afternoons tend to be the part of the day for pulling a briefing together for a meeting, replying to a journalist, or talking a member through yet another bit of regulatory change. There’s always something new to get your head round, but you can’t just shrug and leave folk to it. I’m very proud to speak up for an industry that puts food on tables and keeps rural communities ticking over.
As my day starts to wind down, emails slow but they never stop altogether. There’s usually one more message to answer, one last note to stick on file. Come early evening the laptop shuts and the desks cleared.
Tomorrow there’ll be new issues, new conversations, and probably at least one question nobody’s covered in the guidance. But the aim stays the same, making sure livestock auctioneers have a clear voice, a fair hearing, and a strong future.