On anger and housework.

Bone weary. The house unravelling around me. A month ago I had the downstairs looking reasonably clean and tidy to the point where I wouldn’t be embarrassed if someone called in. Now I’d have to barricade the door. The relentlessness of it is wearing me down, while frustration and resentment build up that the kids ignore the chores while I nag and nag until I’m screaming. When I finally crack and yell and get either of them to at long last do the thing I’ve spent days asking them to do – take a bath! Take your clean washing upstairs! Bring your laundry down to the basket! Please fetch the dirty glasses and plates from your room! – they look at me like I’m being entirely unreasonable.

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

Last weekend I had to drop everything to take a friend to hospital, about fifteen miles away. I sat with her for two hours, until they decided she needed to stay in for 24 hours. She didn’t have anything with her, so I drove back again to pack an overnight bag, making sure I washed the dishes sitting in her sink so she wouldn’t have to come home to them. I stopped off to buy a couple of drinks and snacks to make sure she didn’t go hungry if the NHS food wasn’t up to much, and because there’s not a lot of choice of drinks other than tea and coffee. Back to the hospital, keeping her company for another hour until visiting time was over and she was being taken away for an X-ray. It was about six hours all in all, and I didn’t mind any of it, I’m glad to be of use to her. “This is the closest thing I’ve had to a night out in a long time,” I told her. I wasn’t even joking.

What I minded was texting the kids at 9.15pm to let them know I was on my way home, only to be told that they hadn’t cooked enough food for me after all and I’d need to stop off and buy some dinner for myself. Thank God there was a Tesco Express close to the hospital. Getting home after 10 to discover that no one had thought to wash the dishes but had just piled up more, and that the laundry – my bed linen – was still hanging on the line in the damp evening air. Lily was still playing on the computer in the living room – despite having assured me in an argument earlier that day that she was perfectly capable of self-regulating her computer time, breaks, conduct etc.

“Lily, you’ve been playing on it for over seven hours straight.”

“No, I’ve taken some breaks, I was doing Wii Sports with Ivy.”

Taking a break from the computer to play on the Wii is not what I consider a legitimate break. It took another twenty minutes to chase her off it and into her bedroom, then I sat down with a sad-looking microwave carbonara that went against all of my dietary rules, in a living room full of computers, wires, papers and general detritus.

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

I wanted to flop down on my bed, exhausted, and go straight to sleep. I had to make it first, with slightly damp sheets. I tried to convince myself the dampness would be refreshing after another hot day.

Morning, and the messy kitchen still needs to be tackled, the dishes are still waiting to be washed. A mouldy glass of water appears overnight, brought down from someone’s bedroom. It takes some doing to create mouldy water. The garden needs watering, and the weeds need pulling before they take over. Another load to put in the washing machine, and when did Ivy last change her bedding? A meal plan needs putting together, a shopping list made and presumably shopped for. There are bricks to collect from a house around the corner, before the skip is taken away tomorrow, they’ve said I can have them for my garden to make paths with. I need to cancel my car insurance and hire a handyman and fill out the forms to reclaim the travel costs from Lily’s last appointment, and sort out a new password for my bank account. I’m still feeling angsty and agitated after a week in which several strangers saw fit to have a go at me over things that really didn’t warrant it – triggering as hell after 4 years of Simon blaming me for stuff that wasn’t my fault. Half of me wants to curl up under the sheets and not get up, the other half is screaming that I should just jump in my car and drive away, escape and leave it all behind. I’m going to have to have the talk with the kids again, the same one I keep having, the one that goes I need you to help me. You live here too. You know what jobs need doing. Please do some of them without me having to constantly nag and beg for help. I really can’t do everything on my own. I am so so sick of this one-sided conversation. I’ve left a sign saying No Computer on Lily’s computer, but I can hear her playing. When I go down, she’s on the Wii instead, no chores done, no studying done, wearing the same clothes she’s had on all week and when I try to remonstrate that she shouldn’t be playing games when there’s jobs to be done, she’s utterly unrepentant.

“Get off my ass,” I hear her muttering as I leave the room. I explode at her, pent up with all the jobs I’m trying to do at once.

Do I have to die? Do I have to actually die before someone helps me?

It’s the relentlessness of being a single parent that’s grinding me down. There’s no pause button, no support, no respite. Not a single day off. Not a single night off. I need a holiday from my life, basically. A week where the stress and struggle can stop. I may as well be asking to go to the Moon. And beneath all this – the hurt. The injustice. The anger burning a hole through my chest. Because this is what Simon has done to me. I’m struggling day after day after day with no hope of respite, no hope of any improvement, while he lords it up in their big house, with parking and garage, with holidays whenever they want, with absolutely no responsibilities, no kids to make a mess or interrupt their plans, while still claiming that he is the victim in all of this. I want to scream. I want to throw rocks at his windows and plenty of other stuff that for legal reasons I should definitely not admit to in a public forum. And I despair. Will I ever be healed of this? Of him?

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

I don’t want my life to be a constant reminder of the abuse that I was put through. But it’s hard, when every single day the house is still too small, and I don’t have anywhere to park, and I’m bent double under the weight of holding it all together and raising the kids single-handedly …and Simon’s got away scot-free. Without Legal Aid, there’s no way I could afford to take him back to court to get a fairer settlement, even if that was an actual legal possibility, which it probably isn’t. There should be a free tribunal, a couple of years after divorce, that you could go back to if it’s obvious that your ex lied about finances and circumstances and have any imbalances redressed. Too often divorce settlements are based on equal childcare that somehow disappears once he’s won himself a bigger house and more money than he’d have got if the judge knew the kids would end up with you full time. Sadly I’ve heard too many similar stories to mine and the injustice burns; what I went through, what so many other women have been put through, or are going through right now.

Every time I struggle to find a parking space for the night while I’m exhausted and having to carry shopping bags a quarter mile back to the house, I think of Simon with his garage and driveway. Every time the house feels cluttered and overwhelming and I despair of ever turning our too small house into a comfortable home, I think of Simon with his four bedrooms and two receptions. Every time I give up and close the holiday websites, knowing I just can’t afford to take us away during school vacations, I think of Simon, able to jet away with Astrid off-peak, whenever he wants. Every time I’m faced with Lily raging at me over school work, or being asked to take a bath, or refusing to get off her computer for a break, I think of Simon, who never has to bother with her behaviour. And so on, and so on. How do you heal when the very cornerstones of daily life are a trigger?

This might not be how I want life to look or feel, yet I have no idea of how to get from here to there. So many of us are in that same boat, trapped by financial circumstances that we have little chance of improving, certainly not when other factors are in play; children, disabilities, divorce, trauma, illness, family, lay-offs. If you have money, a solution is affordable for so many of the obstacles in life. If not, the obstacles seem insurmountable, blocking the path to earning the money that would ease the situation.

My friend texts me, she’s going to have to stay in for another 24 hours and needs me to bring more clothes. Here I am complaining about my life while a friend is fighting cancer. Another wake up call, but I’m getting angry at how it’s the good people who seem to suffer most. Prayer, Lottery ticket, a giant red button to just make things stop for a while; I don’t have the answers to how to make life better right now. I really wish I did. In the meantime; just keep breathing.

The Grand Plan

Garden design starts with a plan. Usually. Except, as I’ve mentioned, the dimensions of my garden simply don’t make sense on paper, it’s absurdly long and narrow. I’ve tried sketching out ideas, but the garden refuses to be pinned down. Instead, I’ve found myself feeling my way into it, having a rough idea of what I want and kind of where that might end up, but working it out as I go. Building from the ground up and seeing where it takes me, rather than imposing any artificial design that’s been sketched out from the comfort of my living room.

Here’s the starting point, from the estate agent’s pictures before I moved in. Sadly, that’s not my bench.

All very clean and tidy – but there’s nothing there. An old rose bush and the plum tree, plus straggly grass with trip-holes for the unwary dug by the previous owner’s dog. No flowers, no herbs, no soul. A fence halfway down to contain said dog, and the garden office/cabin beyond. A blank canvas, in other words.

The first idea was to have three circles cut into the grass – I marked out the first couple last year, but ran out of time and energy to properly cut them out. To get rid of the unwanted grass and cut down on weeds in the meantime, I put sheets of cardboard down – it looked hideous but helped to get the job done.

Phase one, the first circle with a large new flower bed between it and the patio is pretty much complete. More plants could be fitted in, but planting will be an ongoing process according to finances and hopefully the ability to raise some from seed – at the moment the priority is to mark out the bones of the garden. My instinct has been to create at least one small area that feels like a garden in the meantime, and seeing the flowers from my bedroom window always brings a smile to my face.

Phase two is to cut out the remaining two circles of grass, edge them and weed the newly created planting beds surrounding them. Both circles have been cut, and one has been edged, albeit wonkily, with timber edging that I managed to get on sale. The weeding wasn’t completed, and as a result both circles are being invaded by an eye-watering amount of convolvulus – bindweed. Nightmare. I want to garden organically, but have started to fantasise about a large dose of Weed n Feed, as there’s no real way I can beat the bindweed, especially as it’s burying its pernicious roots into the “lawn.”. Even if I miraculously beat it back to the fenceline, it will just keep creeping back in from next door’s garden as Mike isn’t much of a gardener.

Phase three; my much-wanted herb garden, just beyond the now-removed centre fence. Based on a mandala design, a circular area of path that buds into the surrounding planting area, giving a larger reach. This has been marked out for over a month, the edges outlined and cut halfway – until the weather became so hot and the ground baked solid. So progress has halted until we get at least one decent rainfall to soften the ground. Plus it’s just too hot to start digging, even if I didn’t have to use a pickaxe to get through the soil. It’s been left, as Lily said, looking like I’m marking out some kind of satanic ritual. This picture was taken a few weeks ago – the grass is like dried straw by now.

With these areas marked out, it’s easy to see that a little potting shed would be perfect in between the grass circles and the herb garden. A strip of decking outside the shed could double up as both a path and a place to sit, and the little space left is where the pond should go. It’s easy to see all of this, in the bliss of my imagination. Creating it though is another story. I need a new car and my shower is still broken. Three doors need the attention of a handyman, for three different reasons. While there are sheds at B&Q that seem fairly cheap, by the time delivery costs have been factored in, never mind assembly costs, it’s just too expensive. Realistically I need to build the shed myself, from pallets and scraps. Rather more realistically – I have zero building experience, and as Ivy would say, have obviously been spending far too much time on Pinterest. Ah, Pinterest – the mythical realm where inspiration triumphs over actual ability. A pond? That seems doable, until I likely unearth a large sunken concrete bunker, or fail to drive the spade in more than six inches deep. Oh, and of course I can’t handle the electric pump installation, neither can I afford to hire someone… and so it would be a stagnant swamp rather than pleasant pond. What should be phases four and five are fast becoming a personal Everest, the litmus test that decides whether I can manage to seriously push myself into new skills or whether in fact I’m just seriously deluded. More pallets are required before I can think about starting the shed though – and it’s far too hot to be trying to lug pallets up the street, or so I’m telling myself.

Phase six – and by now I’m probably fortune-telling rather than planning – would be to build a covered pergola adjoining the cabin to create a social space that’s further away from the house. See, my head figures that by now I’ve already managed to build a shed from scratch, so a pergola should be a breeze, right? This would be the perfect place for an outdoor sofa, I’ve always wanted somewhere comfy to sit outside. There’s a gap between the herb garden and the pergola area, that the kids are asking to keep as long grass, although eventually this could become a veggie patch. And finally phase seven or eight would be to spruce up the hidden orchard area that lies beyond the cabin, pop in some woodland plants and tame some of the tangled undergrowth. Oh, and if I could, I’d also pop in a covered porch along the back of the house; we built these in our last two houses and it’s soooo useful to have a little rain-proof area outside your back door, whether that’s to have a clothes airer standing outside, or to nip out to the firewood pile without getting wet.

That’s the plan then – technically more of a dream than a plan, given the issue of my having no idea how to construct it all. But a dream is a starting point, right? And until then… there’s always Pinterest.

Praying for rain

It’s been ridiculously hot. June passed without a cloud in the sky and no real rain, only the tiniest drizzle. For anyone trying to create a garden, this was not good news. The ground is too sunbaked to dig, and the new plants are desperate for water – I’ve lost count of the treks through the house with dripping watering cans in each hand. While I should no doubt count my blessings for the glorious weather, I’m craving rain. If the patterns of recent years can be relied upon, the good weather will continue right until the last day of term, when the heavens will open for the entire summer holiday. This will continue until the start of the September term, proving rubbish for those of us whose holiday ambitions stretch no further than a cheap camping expedition – then when the kids are back at school we’ll be treated to an Indian summer.

Truth is, I’m not great in the heat. I’m not great in the cold either, I’m an entirely temperate being. Dappled shade and a light breeze are what suit me best. I can’t think straight in the heat, can’t bear to cook in an already over-heated kitchen, hate driving in an oven of a car. If life consisted of siestas and ice cream and dabbling my toes in a stream, it might be bearable. Sadly, life continues on the same, heat-warped rails; school run, housework, shopping, cooking, driving. Oh, and fire-fighting.

The fire-fighting is getting tedious. Another week, another battle with school. Having just achieved some measure of satisfaction over Ivy’s need to switch teaching groups, the next problem arrives. Lily is supposed to be doing work experience for a week. This was all supposed to be sorted out before the January deadline, as Lily decided she would help with lighting and sound for the drama group production, a role she fell into by default last year when Simon didn’t return the forms for her much-wanted European trip in time. I figured it wasn’t exactly work experience but gaining further knowledge of the technical desk would be good for her and tied in with her music technology GCSE.

Two weeks before work experience is due to start and Lily tells me that school have told her she can’t do it. Cue panic, and much phoning and emailing. School insist they gave Lily this information back in January, and from what Lily says, I realise that everyone’s wires have been crossed. What they actually seem to have said to her was that “it might be difficult.” To an ASD/ADHD child, that doesn’t count as a No. Only a No counts as a No, and even then Lily might decide to take it as a Maybe. School insisted that they had given Lily further support to set up a placement, while I tried to point out that clearly they hadn’t – if she had been given enough support, then she would have a placement. The fact that she didn’t have a placement in two weeks’ time, was fairly obvious proof that not enough support had been provided. And for the love of God, why had nobody contacted me about it? This was information I should have been given months ago, as an SEN child is evidently going to need extra help when it comes to securing a suitable work experience placement.

So then, two weeks of last minute panic and stress trying to find something for Lily to do during work experience week, so that she didn’t have to stay in the school library doing extra Maths the whole time. Plus making sure that Ivy was ready for her European trip at the same time, which involved a major shopping expedition. Plus trying to buy a new secondhand car. Plus taking a friend to hospital appointments. Plus, plus, plus. Asking in different shops and cafes whether Lily could do her work experience there, knowing that it was all too late to be arranged properly. Over a hundred miles away, my family were doing the same – but it seemed to be work experience week across the nation, and the most likely places had long since been snapped off. Eventually, Mum managed to secure a few days at her church’s office – not something that Lily would have chosen for herself, but definitely better than extra Maths. The forms were frantically emailed back and forth, arriving on the teacher’s desk on Friday afternoon, with work experience due to start that Monday. The weekend disappeared in a flurry of driving – back down to the city for a college open day for Lily, then home, dinner, and over to the town where school is, as Ivy had thankfully arranged to sleep over at a friend’s house to be closer for the 3.15am drop-off for her trip. Then the four hour drive north to be at my parents’ house for Lily’s work experience, my own appointments for that week cancelled, including a place on a Photography workshop that I’d been looking forward to for ages.

There are times when it feels like all I do is complain. Times when I think I’d like this blog to be all light and fluffy and day-dreamy gorgeousness. But my life doesn’t look anything like that. Having a child with additional/special needs means that life is never going to be straight forward, never mind fluffy and gorgeous. Yes, I try to cherish the moment and remember to count my blessings – but life would be so much easier if schools created decent SEN policies. It’s hard enough trying to cope with a child who has significant behavioural issues, without having to constantly battle to have their needs met at school. To find several teachers have written in Lily’s end of year report that she needs to pay more attention in class – meaning me pulling my hair out in the kitchen as I read it because for Christ’s sake she has ADHD and needs a support worker to keep her on track and I thought we had this sorted out back in Year 7 and now you’re telling me that most of Year 10 has been wasted because you’ve withdrawn that support without telling me and I’m only finding out now when it’s too late?

In the same way that the garden is longing for rain, I’m thirsty for understanding. For compassion and consideration. For ease, for all of it instead of this continuous fire-fighting battle that I’ve been on for the past 15 years. Because I know it’s not just me – pretty much every parent of an SEN child is fighting the same battles, week in, week out. Fighting lack of resources, lack of funding, as well as lack of compassion and imagination. Fighting the tired old cliche that they can’t make exceptions for one child, despite the fact that they need to. Fighting the poor communication, the not being kept informed until it’s too late to do anything about it, the not sticking to agreements that you thought were already in place. And so this week; far more stress than I needed, entirely unnecessarily, and over 300 miles in a dodgy car that might or might not make it home again, while my garden shrivels in the heat and everything is postponed. I’m actually still waiting for the phone call from the teacher responsible that I was promised two weeks ago, the I’ll get back to you. I’m sure that school has written me off – I’m that angry, neurotic mother, always complaining about the lack of support given to her precious Snowflake children. That what I’m saying will be ignored, because most parents never make a complaint or request a meeting, therefore there must be something wrong with me. If only. I’m so over school, so fed up of the ridiculous pressure being placed on us for 100% attendance, never being late, homework always being handed in on time never mind how much has been set or what plans you have made or what’s going on at home, having the correct and expensive school uniform and PE kit, constant demands for money for this trip, that trip, music lessons etc.

I’m longing for the rain. I want to step outside in an evening downpour and feel the cool, refreshing shower wash over me. I’m longing for my parched garden to get that nourishing soak it desperately needs. Longing for life to feel like a cool glass of water instead of a wildfire.

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?

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.