In my garden is a climbing rose. It was growing here long before we bought this house. It's years have imbued it with beauty, with magnificence. And it smells incredible. When we moved here there were two, possibly three, enormous conifers growing in the garden. So big were these trees that it was impossible to judge the size of the garden, or see how light the house would be once they were removed. They dominated the outside space, slicing it in half. On buying the house we immediately got these trees removed. Our garden now looked decidedly post- apocalyptic, but in the ruins we found plants...

I have spent a lot of the last week looking for things. A marionette's jacket for a White Rabbit costume (from world book day), gold pens (eldest's Roman project) and my summer shorts (because where have I stored them?). I am not a very organised person. Much improved from my youth, but still pretty chaotic. A friend and I started a Book Club in January (yes, I know we are 10 years behind the times). The first book we read had two central female characters. One, a Mum to two small children, is messy, disorganised and not in control of her life. The...

I'm not sure how, but I'm back here again. Tasting the bitter adrenaline in my mouth. Feeling my heart rate as it soars. Aware of the pinpricks of sweat on my skin, of the fog descending. My brain is like scrambled eggs. And I'm scared. Unable to make a decision I wander around the house moving from one room to another, tidying the odd thing away, wiping the surfaces. I make a plan to go out, to go swimming. But by the time I have packed my bag and am sat in the car I change my mind, suddenly determined that I should be using my...

Before all this*, when I was still living solely in a world of performance and measurement, I had a run-in with somebody I very much admired. She had made a piece of theatre (which I thought was brilliant) and felt I had snubbed her afterwards. I hadn't congratulated her - infact she felt I had been rude and cold. She had found me arrogant and detached. This may well have been a valid appraisal of what she saw on the outside. But inside I was falling apart, so desperate to be liked, for my work to be liked, that I rarely dared...

I read an article last week about the artist Frida Kahlo. Or to be more exact about her personal belongings, and how her lover Diego Rivera had insisted the wardrobe that contained them was not to be opened until 15 years after his death. It was finally opened in 2004. What was found inside was a jumble of personal items. Some mundane and some unexpected. All beautiful. Frida Kahlo had suffered polio as a child, leaving her with one leg shorter than the other. Then in her 20s she was involved in a bus crash, in which her leg was broken in 11 places. After this...

In a world that esteems the strong and applauds the definite, to admit you might not know is a scary thing. I am getting used to this feeling, of flux, of in between, of uncertainty. "If my mind could gain a firm footing, I would not make essays, I would make decisions; but (my mind) is always in apprenticeship and on trial." Montaigne Before. As a child I was taught life in binary. Right and wrong. Good and bad. Failure and success. Primary colours. This gave me a safe place to grow. A space where I understood the rules of how to behave and what was...

I am a reader. It is who I am. At my best I always have at least one book on the go and a stack awaiting attention. I know I am not doing well, or have taken on too much if I have no desire to read. Because it is part of who I am. I am a reader. As a child I borrowed books. I hid books under the bedclothes. I sat up in bed and read Alice In Wonderland, marvelling at the creations and spectacle, and at the absence of plot. I revelled in the crazy imagination of Roald Dahl, and...

Maybe because it has just been Mother's Day, maybe because I know how common this is, and maybe because I believe it is through bringing our pain into the light that we find healing, I have a story I want to share. Be gracious with me, I don't talk about this often. On 4th July 2003, I was 23 years old and 12 weeks pregnant. The first few weeks were a confusion of emotions. This pregnancy wasn't planned and there were moments of regret and anxiety. And many questions. How was I going to manage? My husband had a busy and demanding job....

I spent a lot (or maybe that should be all) of my youth and twenties listening to other people. Good people. Wise people. People who had my best interests at heart and wished me well. I listened to a lot a very sage advise. I even implemented some of it. But nothing is as exciting as listening to myself. My own voice. My own opinions. And learning to trust them. There have been a number of occasions recently when I have ventured an opinion, or said "I just can't get this thought out of my head" and rambled on about some subject...

Yesterday the-wonderful-Amanda (full title) mentioned a friend who lives life at a breakneck pace. She described her as having a wheel on her back hidden under her clothes, and said she frequently asks her the question "Who's driving you today?". I pictured this brilliant woman imagining that, hidden from polite society under her coat, a cartoon character with a glint in his eye drives her faster and faster, goggles on. A throw away comment and not necessarily mentioned for my benefit (although i wonder…) but I felt the gentle sting of recognition. After all I have learnt, after all I talk and write...