I am not loving the garden the way I should. There is too much detritus and I had to beg some space in the neighbours green/brown bin to try and reduce the piles of trimmings littering the grass, which needs cut again and is part of the never ending cycle of busyness I could enter if I just admit to myself that I need to be busy again.

I did enter a brief self pitying spiral after my work exploits and I have to be honest and confess to feeling a distinct lack of enthusiasm to throw myself into finding a job again. I feel sad that working always seemed so important, and now I really don’t know if I can offer the person I used to be, and fit into a work world I don’t really like.

It’s far easier to do bits and pieces but more difficult to motivate myself. I started a novel but lost interest after a bit of a impasse when somebody looked at it and I started getting worried about a style to adopt. I read a lot and I don’t think I am writing in my voice but I’m not sure what that voice is… should I be writing an MS related factual book or a piece of dramatic fiction? So many writers, who wants to read me?

Moving to a new platform has been hard. I don’t get the readers I had before, but then I was writing about the battles I had with my balloons in my breast affecting my ability to do anything, not just gardening. Four years in our house, and the scale of the garden is daunting. Getting rid of green waste or composting it seems unending.And we have a greenhouse which means I am growing things. A little later than planned, but we have germinating tomatoes, courgettes, peas, beans and herbs. If I can keep them alive I will be proud.