Exhaustion and the quiet of the suburbs.

Saturday. The alarm switched off the night before, being able to sleep in until the heady delights of 7am, when my bladder can’t hold out any longer. There’s the list of weekend chores to tackle, but I’m exhausted. I manage to wash up, put the school uniforms in the wash, start emptying the bins… by lunchtime I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. Today would be a good day to start work on the herbal garden, but instead I crawl back to bed for a nap.

It’s not been the worst week, but it’s been tiring and stressful – battling with school over meeting Ivy’s needs, the strain of the car breaking down again and worrying at one point that we weren’t even going to make it into town for the school bus without having to push the car ourselves. Taking a friend to the shops even though I didn’t need to go myself. More arguments with Lily, a paediatric appointment, and having to contact the two other hospitals we deal with to get advice about her medication and whether it could be affecting her behaviour. Lots of niggling jobs were ticked off the To Do list; emails, bills, the Tax Credits form. Possibly I over-exerted myself planting pretty much all of the remaining pots that were waiting on the patio. But by Saturday – total exhaustion. It seems to go this way most weekends – the plans I want to make fall by the wayside as I don’t have the energy to carry them out. One day at home to catch up with homework and chores, to decompress after the busy week, and then a day to go out and have fun as a family, get a change of scene – that seems ideal to me. In reality, it’s one day spent feeling like The Walking Dead, barely able to do anything at all, and one day spent catching up on twice as many chores.

Lily and Ivy know that there are chores to be done, my new system is write out a list on Friday evening – everybody then chooses a couple of jobs and gets through them as quickly as possible on Saturday morning. I’ve had to enforce this by changing the Wifi password until the jobs are done; tiresome but effective. Otherwise I have to do absolutely everything on my own until I’m on the floor with exhaustion and frustration – it’s impossible to make progress on the home and garden fronts when you’re struggling to manage the daily chores. Or to put it another way – it’s depressing to spend most of the day working hard outside; clearing, digging, painting, mowing, trimming, shredding, planting, weeding – then come back in and discover the kitchen is piled high with dishes that nobody else is washing. Yet still, even though they know that the chores need doing, even though they know that they’ll lose their internet access, nothing gets done unless I nag and chivvy them into it. On the days when exhaustion wins out, I simply don’t have the energy to fight to get the kids to do their part. Frustration and resentment bite hard.

No sooner have I decided to give in and take a nap then out they come. The strimmers, the mowers, the hedge trimmers, the pressure washers, even at times the cement mixers and circular saws. All the noisy outdoor appliances that the suburbs can muster. I close my window and try to relax, but the noises grate on my tired mind. From her bedroom, Lily lets out random shrieks of insane-sounding laughter as she watches endless YouTube videos- a noise that grates even further as it’s proof that she’s neither doing her homework, nor tackling her chores. It’s not as if I can throw my windows open and order my neighbours to shut up while I get some sleep, and I’m done with arguing over Lily about what she should be doing. I’ve been spoiled by the House in the Sky – being detached, with only two neighbours to worry about, the other houses spaced out far enough for noise not to matter. When people mowed their lawns or set to with the strimmer, it didn’t sound as if they were waving them around right under my bedroom window. Am I right in thinking that there’s areas in Europe where there are very strict times about when you can and can’t mow the lawn? It sounds very oppressive to say that lawns can only be cut at 9am on Sunday mornings, but then – what bliss to enjoy the quiet for the rest of the week.

I’ve always beaten myself up over days like this, the days when nothing gets done, intentions swirling down the drain of exhaustion. Now I’m trying to give myself more wiggle room, more compassion. Accepting that much of day to day life feels like a battle, that ASD/ADHD makes life feel harder, uses up more energy. That it’s been a week of doing things that I find difficult, that the stress means paying a price, several shiny gold tokens extracted from my energy levels. When Lily was a lot younger, we learned the hard way about her need for decompression days – generally after a day or so of absolute hell when we were supposed to be on holiday. It didn’t matter how fun it was, how many activities there were to do, how great the swimming pool was or how many places we wanted to explore – after a big day out, we needed to spend the next morning at home (or in the tent, caravan etc), letting Lily chill out, watch her videos etc. If not, she got over-stimulated, over-tired and there was hell to pay – screaming tantrum after screaming tantrum.

I’m only just realising my own need for decompression days. Society isn’t very good at taking a pause though, something that’s getting worse instead of better, an endless push for faster, harder, more. If you’re ASD/ADHD, your head is full enough already, 50 brain tabs running all together while being constantly bombarded by sensory overwhelm. Noise is a big one for me, something I’m noticing when trying to drive; it’s why I’ve bitten Lily’s head off at times when she starts immediately fiddling with the radio and changing it to one of her CDs while I’m still absorbing the energy of both kids coming out of school full of complaints and chatter, the frenetic car park of pupils and vehicles moving in and out, the queue to get out, the cars whizzing past on the main road… SHUT UP ALREADY! I guess that’s why when I travel earplugs are essential, otherwise I can’t sleep – my brain recognises that the noises around me aren’t right and starts freaking out, trying to pick up every sound in case I’m in danger.

The fastest way to improve the everyone’s work-life balance would be to make the weekend a day longer. The bliss of having that extra day during Bank Holidays or Inset days but all year round- we get a decompression day, a chores day and a fun day. Personally I think it would boost the economy and the nation’s productivity no end, reducing sickness and stress and giving neurotypicals another day to go to the Mall and spend money. In the meantime, I may have to buy ear plugs for home use too, or fantasise about a return to scythes and old-fashioned non-electric mowers like my Grandad had. Wasn’t Poldark supposed to have sparked an interest in scything again? Thinking about it, I know one of the actors in the TV series… could I get Poldark himself to scythe my overgrown grass and set off a quiet new suburban trend?

Slugs and snails

I have a new hobby; snail-flinging. My lovely hostas have been shredded. My two trays of seedlings, bergamot and chamomile for the herb garden, disappeared overnight. The grapevine I planted has been nibbled away entirely to the point where I don’t know if it will recover – thankfully it was on a cheap offer, and I’ve popped a plastic bottle over it as a make-do cloche in the hope it will grow back. When you’re investing so much into your garden in terms of your time, energy and emotion as well as money, it can feel devastating to have slugs and snails destroy your plants while you sleep. I’ve been trying to nip out as it gets dark, picking off the snails by hand and flinging them down the garden as if it was an Olympic sport. Slugs are fired off with the addition of a spoon, I’m not up to picking them up with my bare hands. This doesn’t actually kill them, merely delays the inevitable while I look for better solutions. The kids have enjoyed a spot of snail-flinging too, although I’ve struggled to keep them on track with their aim. It’s not okay to fling snails into your neighbour’s garden, I’m fairly sure that’s the kind of behaviour that earns you an ASBO.

The basic choice with slugs and snails is to put down some kind of physical preventative barrier such as crushed eggshells, or to attack them chemically. Traditional slug pellets are out as I want to garden organically. Knowing the damage that they can cause further up the food chain to frogs and birds etc, I’m amazed that they’re still legal. Nematodes might work for a small area, such as the barrel planter, but not across the whole garden. A few years back I bought a packet of what turned out to be rough shards of pottery that the slugs and snails were supposed to not enjoy crawling over, but it didn’t seem to have any affect. A circle of porridge oats around a plant seems to work well, but I’m unsure of whether this is safe for birds as the raw oats can then swell up in the stomach. Salt seems too vicious, but wouldn’t be much good for the soil either. I’ve had limited success with beer traps, which get a little bit disgusting to empty out but at least it’s a relatively happy death, unlike being dropped into boiling hot water, or the bucket of salty water my Mum favours. Perhaps I’m getting too soft in my old age. Gardener’s World has just featured wool pellets, which work on the premise that slugs and snails don’t like the texture and won’t crawl over them, and have the bonus of being natural and should eventually break down into the soil. No doubt there will immediately be a rush to buy them up across every garden centre in the land. Amazon seems to be selling them at around £18 for a 10L tub, so not exactly cheap, but perhaps worth it if there’s a particularly special plant that you’re trying to protect. I’m wondering whether I could use some wool stuffing to achieve the same effect.

Of course, the minute I start putting new plants in further down the garden, my snail-flinging won’t be a viable option. I’m wondering whether I could trail a catch and a release scheme, dumping the pests by the bucketload at the very bottom of the garden where they would have to navigate their way through the orchard to make it back to my tender plants. Beyond that, it would be a late night walk to the cycle path to release them into the wild. At the moment though, I’m secretly enjoying trying to beat my personal best with each throw, as well as avoiding the added obstacle of the plum tree.

However, the heavy rain a few nights ago brought fresh horrors. Salt and Peppa meowed their loudest to remind me to give them a snack before going to bed, but when I checked I could see something in one of their bowls. What have the kids put in there now? I wondered, as Lily and Ivy were prone to donating “treats” to the cats when they were younger, be it cake or a slice of ham that was supposed to be in my lunchtime sandwich. It was dark out in the porch, so I switched on the torch on my phone. And promptly screamed.

Nine monster green slugs, demolishing the cats’ supper. Plus more on the walls, floor and door – and please excuse the nasty looking floor and walls as well – it was all thoroughly cleaned last weekend but as the floor level is lower than the ground outside and the damp proof course, there are ongoing problems with damp, as well as woodlice and slugs. These were the biggest, fattest, ugliest, scariest slugs that I’ve ever seen – I don’t normally see this type in the garden. Not knowing what else to do with them, I took them outside in the dark and tipped them into the middle of the grass, then came back to remove the stragglers and the remaining monstrous hordes lining up on the doorstep for entry.

No wonder the poor hostas are suffering – the slugs are beefing themselves up on cat biscuits, then attacking my plants as pudding. I need to get tougher, develop a no tolerance attitude to the slimy critters and bring out the bucket of brine but I’m getting too soft in my old age. I don’t like the idea of killing things and should probably become a vegetarian. Frankly, I’ve got enough to deal with without a colony of monster slugs living in my garden. Or in my house for that matter. What’s a sensitive gardener to do?

The gift of an ordinary life

I think I might just have got the very thing I’ve been asking for for a long time; a week where nothing happened. Granted, it was preceded by a mental health crisis that I could have done without, but then there was definitely almost a week where there were no new problems to deal with. I cracked on with the garden, the housework, trying to catch up in general. It was bliss. This is what normal must feel like, I told myself. With the weather being so beautiful I’d persuaded the kids to catch the bus to and from school, which meant a much earlier start in the morning but resulted in so much more time and energy for me.

Of course, it couldn’t last. I made every effort to let the Universe know how much I appreciated the gift of a quiet, ordinary week in the hope that I would continue to be so fortunate, but no. Normality resumed. The quote for the shower came in around £500 more than expected. A phone call from school to let me know that other parents were expressing concern about Lily’s behaviour in class, given that she spent the whole time talking about being a vampire, seeing demons and being in possession of a Deathbook, all of which caused too much disruption in class to be tolerated. The CYPS crisis team had been contacted and were expressing concern that Lily’s epilepsy medicine might be behind what appeared to be some kind of delusional psychotic crisis, and the teacher urged me to contact them myself. Why? I found myself thinking. This is just normal for us. None of it is actually real, it’s more that Lily is now play-acting to an absolute extreme. A second call the next day to say that Lily had spent her IT lesson refusing to do any work, insisting instead that she needed to use the internet to help solve a murder in Utah. Thank God it was the last day of term, although the pastoral teacher didn’t think I was going to survive half term looking after Lily on my own and ordered me to make an appointment with the GP as soon as possible. All of this happened while I was in the middle of a meeting with a local charitable organisation in the hope that they could help me get back into work. Frankly, it did nothing but prove that a job would be impossible to handle right now.

The plan was to head up north to spend a few days with my family and celebrate my Dad’s birthday. We set out over an hour later than I’d hoped, because of course Lily had decided to get the late bus home from school so she could do her music, despite knowing we were heading out on a long drive. Similarly Ivy hadn’t bothered to pack the night before as requested, and the minutes slipped by later and later while I despaired of ever leaving, knowing how tired I was going to feel with a five hour drive ahead of me. Almost as soon as we set out though, the car started flashing up error messages; faulty brake light. Error; Anti pollution faulty. The car was struggling to get up to speed, feeling sluggish and juddery. I pulled into a garage to double check my air pressure, in the hope that this would magically transform the performance of the entire vehicle. No such luck. By the time we got onto the motorway, it was clear that the car wasn’t going to make it. Instead, we came off at the first junction and headed for home. This is after the car breaking down on the motorway in February, after paying to get through the MOT in January and after replacing the clutch last Autumn, plus repairs to the radiator. I did my best to get the car fixed on the following day, but the garage weren’t able to solve it in time before closing for the bank holiday, leaving me with a car that wasn’t behaving well enough to undertake any serious driving. Half term, bank holiday and we were stuck. The trip north was cancelled and neither could I risk any of our usual day trips.

Meanwhile Ivy has been falling apart over being placed in a new teaching group without any of her friends. She’s had such a hard time in the last couple of years that I’ve contacted school to ask if she can move classes – of course, all I’m getting back is the tired old we can’t make exceptions for one child or we’d have to do it for everyone. Oh really? So if she had hearing or sight difficulties they wouldn’t arrange for her to sit at the front of the class? Ivy has severe anxiety, probably ASD-related, and is still recovering from depression. I’m doing my best to explain to school that this grouping means putting her through further stress and anxiety, including IBS and nausea, so loss of appetite and skipping meals, insomnia and fear about going to bed, plus inability to concentrate in class, inability to raise her hand or answer questions, inability to contribute to group learning and projects, while struggling to control her breathing and fight off panic attacks. It’s taken so long to build up her confidence after all the trauma, and I’m tired of having her knocked down again by either Simon or school. But schools nowadays just close ranks; it’s all about conformity and saving face, there’s never an admission that they’ve made a mistake, there’s no compassion or flexibility. She spent most of today in tears and I’m tired of being fobbed off. So; yet another battle. And now Lily is intent on being “L” from Deathnote, at home, at the supermarket, at school… and now the Tax Credits form needs to be filled out, and so on and so on.

Please stop, I beg the Universe. Please, no more. Give me the gift of an ordinary life, just long enough for us all to recover. Outside, the roses are blooming; can’t we just stop for a while, long enough to smell them?

Courtyard Retreat

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The patio. A crucial part of the garden, the transition between house and nature. A place to sit and enjoy the view, to share a meal, to sip an early morning mug of tea or evening glass of wine. In this case; not exactly a promising start. Mouldering old trellis, a myriad of pots and containers, the bench we’d brought with us from the last house, in dire need of a repaint.

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It got even worse before it got better; a huge pile of thorny prunings from the rosebush, plastic mesh retrieved from the undergrowth when I fixed the fence, bags of compost… Not exactly somewhere you want to sit and relax. The patio had become a dumping ground, making me shudder every time I came outside. Looking out of the windows onto the garden wasn’t a pleasure either.

Although I’d been working hard in the garden, I told myself that the patio could wait. The urge to fix it up was growing though, the awareness that I needed a place to sit outside, be still and enjoy the garden as it gradually developed. It fast became a soul-urge. Paint the trellis, came the whisper. Start there. And so I did… and it didn’t take as long as I’d feared, and one thing led to another and…

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Ta da! Sorry about the glare, it was taken through the living room window. Suddenly the grotty patio had become a courtyard retreat. A place to sit and breathe, read a book, eat lunch, listen to the birds. The early morning sun makes it a lovely spot first thing, then as the heat builds up in the afternoon it begins to shade over, becoming a refuge for over-heated gardeners. Even Lily and Ivy have appreciated the difference, having been spotted out there occasionally; Lily with her tablet on the bench which still manages a Wifi signal from the house, Ivy at the table with sketch book and paints. At the House in the Sky we’d often sit out on the patio to eat a meal, particularly if we had friends round – it’s a habit I’d like to get into again, although the table only has two chairs and is on the petite side for three sets of plates, glasses etc.

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As afternoon turns to evening, the little solar bulbs (Sainsburys) switch on, making the place even more enchanting. The bench has a fresh coat of paint and waits patiently for one of us to sit in the cooling air, letting the day’s stress slip away in the fading light. Lesson learned; it’s worth taking the time to make one small area of the garden into a special retreat, a refuge from the cares of the day and thoughts of all that still needs doing. And if that sweet courtyard refuge is what you see when you first step out of the door, rather than an ugly pile of jobs to be tackled, so much the better – it will coax you into your garden rather than beating you about the head with your To Do list.

Resilience

Advice on how to plant trees has changed in recent years; instead of being lashed to a stake that stands parallel to the trunk, it’s now thought best to put in a lower, diagonal stake that allows the growing tree to move with the wind. This way it will strengthen and gain more resilience, better able to withstand future storms.

I feel I have precious little resilience left. Looking at the storms I’ve had to weather in the past few years, some might say I’ve demonstrated incredible resilience – after all, I’m still standing. My answer is this: barely. In tree-speak, I’m like one of those wind-blasted thorn trees, gnarly and bent by Cornish winds, leaning at an alarming angle. Nothing is as it should be. Each setback seems to extract a higher and higher price on my mental health – and recently, the setbacks have been piling in on top of each other until breaking point has been well and truly passed. In truth, I don’t know how I’m still standing; my body seems to haul herself automatically through the days while my spirit remains curled up in the foetal position. Recent events brought me to a near-suicidal low after an argument with the children; apparently my attempts to get them into school on time and wearing the correct uniform make me unreasonable.

It was Ivy’s insistence that I was being ridiculous that somehow broke me, something she had no idea would trigger such a catastrophic state of mind. Of course, that was the word that Simon used almost non-stop during our disastrous mediation sessions, shouting me down with Ridiculous! Ridiculous! whenever I tried to speak the truth. I left that final session shaking and traumatised; the mediator should never have allowed it. Instead she seemed shocked that I had become upset and angry, that I wasn’t holding it together in the calm, rational manner that Simon was capable of, that so many abusers are capable of, smug in the knowledge that they are winning. There are so many aspects to domestic abuse that professionals need more awareness of, the subtle and insidious ways that abusers use to manipulate and control their victims. Simon’s ability to stay calm should never have been interpreted as proof that he was reasonable, nor that he was right – it’s only much later, with hindsight, that I can see the extent to which he was already lying, plotting and manipulating. You can’t win against someone who is willing to lie about absolutely everything, who will literally stop at nothing in order to get what they want (namely to destroy you) and all of the professionals involved were entirely taken in.

It wasn’t Ivy’s fault, she had no way of knowing the impact her words would have. To be triggered has become such an over-used buzzword, the millennial generation throwing it around for seemingly the slightest upset, the least bit of offence. To be triggered shouldn’t be equated to being over-sensitive, a special snowflake – realistically it means that you are unexpectedly floored by your reaction to what should be a non-event. It’s sudden, overwhelming panic, or shutdown or crisis. I should not have been upset by Ivy’s usage of one simple, inoffensive word, bad-mannered though it was. Instead, I spent the next few days feeling worthless, unable to carry on as normal in what seemed like an utterly pointless life. Feeling this low is exhausting and terrifying, and at times it’s only been the knowledge that I have kids to look after that’s carried me through it. None of this is a big red flag, a crisis call for help; I’ve gotten through it. Again. Resilience, I guess.

The garden is saving my life. Each time I go out there, I feel better. Gardening is a form of hope that the future will be better, we plant for the future. Having cleared the new flower bed for planting, I sorted through the plants I’d rescued from The House in the Sky to see what could go in along with the few new plants I’d bought. A lot of the old pots contained shrivelled up specimens of what used to be plants, or were overcrowded with weeds, and so I decided to take them down to the far end of the garden to get them out of the way. But as I picked up one pot and pulled out the weeds, I noticed a leaf. One single leaf poking through the dry soil that looked remarkably like a peony.

Back in the city years ago I’d tried to grow peonies without much success. They’re not keen on being moved and the plants I’d bought just wouldn’t settle in. When we moved to the House in the Sky though, there was a beautiful red peony near the front door, with gorgeous blowsy blooms. For seven years, I smiled at its flowers, not even wanting to pick them and bring them inside – they were too beautiful to cut. Once the decision to sell had been made, I had to agree to Simon sending in “gardeners” to tame the garden that we’d never fully taken control of, so overgrown was it by the time we bought the place from its elderly owners. Knowing that Astrid considered herself to be “good at gardening,” I had to specifically name her in the court agreement, that she was “not to attend the property” – otherwise Simon would bring her there each day so that they could get the house on the market as quickly as possible in order to buy their new home together. This woman who had been stalking me, spying on me, attacking me on social media, entering my home without permission, going through my belongings and papers – yes, Simon really was that tactless as to bring her to the house against my will. Even with the court agreement in place she still turned up at the house at least three times in the following week, at one point standing right outside the garden wall, shouting abuse at me in front of my children – You’re mad! You’re crazy! while Simon told the kids “Your mother is psychotic.” This because I objected to them breaking the court order, because I was upset and angry about being lied to and betrayed yet again, particularly as I had gritted my teeth and tried to be friendly towards Simon as he turned up at the house each day.

He hired “gardeners” to clear the garden, which they did using petrol-fuelled hedge-trimmers, slashing everything in sight. In desperation I tried to explain to them what should stay and what should go, otherwise they would literally have cut everything down to a stump, the old apple tree included. But they were Czech and barely spoke English, and my NO, don’t cut that was generally interpreted as No, I don’t want that. Meanwhile Yes, I want to keep this became Yes, please cut this down. I simply couldn’t win. I googled Czech phrases, we tied ribbons to the plants we wanted to keep and the kids hung signs on the apple tree, but it was too little too late. I sobbed indoors, hands around my head to block out the noise as they cut their way through the entire garden, then ran for my car and got the hell out of the destruction, unable to stop it, unable to cope with Simon strutting around the devastation like the Lord of the Manor, not even able to stop Astrid from constantly turning up. I stroked the leaves of my peony, trying to get them to understand, to save it. It was flowering, surely they could see how beautiful it was? When I came back, it was gone.

I’d dug up a few plants before the gardeners came, but wanted to rescue more plants to bring with me when I moved. I was too ill by then, bed-ridden with severe flu. Moving had become a disaster, Simon hadn’t even bothered to let the solicitor know that the money from the sale was supposed to fund my ongoing purchase. I could barely stand by that point, but was having to repeatedly haul myself off to the tip and charity shops. A last minute shout out to friends brought much needed help with clearing furniture that wasn’t going to fit into the much smaller new house. A friend offered to dig up any of the plants I wanted to bring – a few roses and a hazelnut were all I managed to remember; I didn’t even have the energy to make a proper list. But then, almost on the day of the move, I spotted something where the peony had once been. A small offshoot, a baby plant pushing through the soil where its parent had once sheltered it. A young seedling that probably would have been choked out by the dominance of the mother plant, if it had still been there. Carefully, I dug it out and into a pot. It was this same tiny peony that I found now, as I pulled the weeds out of its pot. One leaf poked up through the soil, so easily overlooked or thrown into the compost by mistake. I planted it in the new bed, whispered words of encouragement to it, watered it and crossed my fingers. Live. Please live.

Resilience.

Cat and resilient peony. I'm not sure how resilient it is to being sat on though.

On Imperfection, Barrels and Buddha

May has brought a very unBritish heatwave, followed by its very own monsoon season, sometimes in the space of a single day and most usually when I’ve hung the washing out to dry. After over a week of scorching hot weather, the ground was too hard to dig and so I’ve shifted to other jobs; painting the fence and bench, revamping the patio area as well as trying to keep everything watered. Watering is tricky as there’s no tap at the back of the house and so watering cans have to be filled up in the kitchen or bathroom, carried dripping through the house and out into the garden. I’ve now managed to install a water butt, almost correctly, and so there’s some water available at the back, as well as a large barrel further down the garden, although this isn’t connected to any gutters and so only fills from rain falling directly in it. I’ve been setting out as many containers as I can to catch rainwater and manually refill the barrel – my garden looks like an episode of Bear Gryll’s The Island at times. It’s only when you don’t have water that you appreciate how sacred it really is. I will say nothing of the constant hiss of hosepipes in neighbouring gardens as I’m slogging down the path carrying watering cans of my recycled bath water. I’m so glad I mulched the new flower bed after planting, it’s done a lot to help my precious new plants to get through the hot weather.

Unable to make much more progress while the ground was so hard, I turned my attention to the patio. Oh dear. A large pile of thorny trimmings from the overgrown rosebush and trellis that needed shredding, bags of compost and mulch, plants awaiting a home, pots that once were plants and now were weeds, random bits of wood and pallets and much general debris. Not exactly a space that cried out to be sat in and enjoyed. After a good tidy up and sweep, the trellis repainted and the table and chairs reinstated, it’s now a lovely little patio where we can sit outside and chill, read on the bench, or have a meal. One of those jobs that feels overwhelming but doesn’t take all that long once you get down to it. It was all so much better… except for the barrel.

Yep. Not great. The barrel was left behind by previous occupants, and judging from the state of it, I imagine they inherited it from their predecessors. It was now a sad accumulation of weeds and building rubble, too heavy to even move. With the blazing hot weather still preventing me from digging elsewhere, it was time to tackle the barrel. Once I’d started digging out the soil, I discovered why it was so hard to move – the bottom of the barrel was full of bricks. I’m not sure if someone thought it needed bricks for drainage, or whether they just wanted to get rid of them or were hoping to use less compost, but it was as much brick as it was soil. It all came out, then fresh compost went in and I was ready to plant.

Back at The House in the Sky, I had bought half-barrel planters for Lily and Ivy, let them choose their own plants from the garden centre to create their own mini-gardens. It’s a lovely idea for kids, as it’s more manageable than a patch of ground and way cuter – the main issue is to make sure they get enough water. Lily chose a strawberry plant amongst others, and would proudly give Ivy the one, precious strawberry that it grew each year. There should have been others, I don’t know why it only generally managed one, probably slugs, snails and woodlice were to blame. But still, a moment of cuteness and generosity, a very rare thing to be treasured. By the time we moved, the barrels were falling apart and we left them behind along with so much else, so many hopes and dreams. All this was running through my mind as I planted, along with the interruption of a phone call from Ivy as the school bus had broken down yet again in the hot weather and could I come and pick them up?

I’m just in the middle of something, give me ten minutes and let’s see if they get a new bus out to you quickly.

Because sometimes you need to finish what you’ve started. The barrel was going to be something beautiful, a contemplative spot, somewhere for me to sit and enjoy. If I ran off now and left it unfinished, everything would likely sit there for several more days until I could get back to it, plants drying out in the heat, weed seeds blowing into the fresh compost, resolve dwindling in the face of new chores. So I planted, and put down a layer of cardboard between the plants and piled up cobbles and placed the centrepiece I’d haggled over in the garden centre…

Ta da! My new garden meditation spot. Not that I do any kind of proper meditation, but sometimes sitting peacefully outside is as Zen as it gets. My little Buddha is there to remind me to do just that, to take a moment and rest and breathe while enjoying the quiet, the birds, the flowers. To contemplate beauty and stillness, rather than the To Do list. The bus brought the kids home okay after all; Lily noticed the difference straight away and declared it to be our Japanese garden, while it took Ivy a week to notice, by which time the slugs were attacking the hostas with primordial vigour. No matter. My garden will never be perfect, neither will life be. I’m learning to try to make the most of it anyway.

What’s working now…

Pukka Lean Matcha Green Tea. I’ve long been suspicious of the bitter taste of a lot of green teas, but this one has a light, sweet taste that doesn’t go acrid if brewed too long, for people like me who tend to forget to take the teabag out. I’ve switched to a cup of this first thing instead of my usual builder’s tea and it feels like a cleaner, brighter start to the morning. Potentially a better source of caffeine than regular tea or coffee in my search to self-medicate for ADHD.

Sunshine. Good weather really makes a difference, especially in terms of getting out of bed for the school run. I try to compensate in the Winter with one of those alarm clocks that gradually starts to get light half an hour before you need to wake up. It helps. The weather has been uncharacteristically gorgeous in the past couple of weeks and so I’ve been trying to make the most of it.

Gardening. I always always feel better after working in the garden. It’s worth dashing outside even if it’s just to water the pots for five minutes. A decent session in the garden has a dramatic improvement on my mood, plus the bonus of being able to see my progress also lifts my spirits even if I’m just glancing out of the window.

Water. Drinking more of it, swimming in it (although I really hate public swimming baths), bathing in it, being next to it whether a little pond, a stream or the sea. Is it something to do with negative ions? I’ve decided my garden definitely needs a pond, plus it would be worth finding a little local spot where I can sit in relative privacy and enjoy the river.

Menu planning. At my worst I couldn’t think five minutes beyond my nose. I literally couldn’t manage to decide what we’d have for dinner a day in advance and so we ended up in the supermarket every single day after school, picking out a ready meal. A HelloFresh subscription got me cooking properly again, and made it easier for the kids to also help out with preparing meals – I’d definitely recommend them, although due to Ivy developing gluten and dairy intolerances, we’ve needed to switch back to our own meals. I’ve realised that even if I don’t have the brainpower to come up with a menu that covers the whole week, I can split the week into two (Mon-Thurs, Fri-Sun) and just make sure that the next 3-4 days are sorted. Cue better, healthier meals and a lower grocery bill. Current favourite cookbooks; The Happy Kitchen, and Jamie’s Five Ingredient Cookbook.

Magnesium Flakes. I’m not sure what peculiar sorcery is going on here, but a handful of these in my bath has transformed my skin from reptilian to baby soft. I’m hoping that the same magic is working somewhere on the inside too; magnesium is apparently an essential mineral for overall wellbeing. It’s apparently also good for plants, so I’m reusing the bath water in the garden whenever possible.

Massage. Wrongly seen as a luxury, this has been a lifesaver for both my physical and mental/emotional health. Stress leads to muscle tension which builds up into pain and headaches and ultimately looking like Quasimodo. Hot stone massage by a good therapist really helps to unwind me and keep me grounded; whenever I skip a few weeks because of budget or busyness, I end up regretting it.

Lifesum. A food tracker app, available on subscription. I used it for a while, then stopped when my comfort eating was getting out of control, but am now going back to it while I attempt the 5:2 plan. Lifesum has several different programmes you can follow with recipe suggestions, but mainly it makes it easy to record what you’re eating and keep an eye on the balance of carbs, protein, fats etc as well as counting calories. I’ve found that even just the act of recording what I eat means I make healthier decisions. I’ve not even been trying very hard, but week one and I’ve lost two pounds – not life-changing but the first time in four years that the scales have moved downwards.

Think Small. Book by Owain Service. A relatively short, easy read about goal-setting and making small, manageable tweaks to your daily routine in order to achieve the desired result. There’s plenty of stuff out there already, but this one really brought it home about how to schedule in new habits so that things actually happen.

The Durrells. Ivy and I have been watching since the first series, now Lily has finally joined in and discovered this essential Sunday evening drama series. Funny, heartwarming and touching without being saccharine, we’ve absolutely loved it; please make another series very soon as we’re already feeling bereft now it’s finished. I’m secretly looking forward to the second series of The Handmaid’s Tale – rather less gentle and not at all comedic but very gripping, one for me rather than the kids. In general there’s a need to be picky about what I watch, The News tips me over the edge into panicked, hopeless depression, and I can’t much cope with depressing documentaries at the moment, no matter how worthy. I’m wishing they’d show The Gilmore Girls again, heartwarming, cosy dramas are a must.