My Life As An Olympic Swimmer

Swimming has always come naturally to our family. No wait a minute, swimming has never come naturally to our family. My mother, to the day she died, never learned to swim. It wasn't her fault. She attended swimming lessons with her school. She went every single week. But she also felt the cold more than most. She would get into the pool and the instructor would give out instructions to the class. By this time my mother would have turned blue and would be ordered out of the pool. This was the case week after week and so my mother left school never having learned to swim.

Over the years she developed a, I suppose in her case healthy, fear of water. Every year we would travel to the Isle of Man for our summer holidays and while my older brother and sister were diving from the floating board and swimming for England, I was to paddle to my mid calves and go no further. You should never get out of your depth Janet or the tide might carry you away!

Then one summer my Dad decided that it was time that I learned to swim and we all trundled to the swimming baths, Mum watching from the spectators' area. Dad had been explaining to me about water giving you buoyancy and how I would always float as he gradually, without my realising, took his hands away from me and I was floating unaided, at the age of five! By 1984 I would have been ready for Olympic gold! Well I was floating until, from the spectators seats my Mother's voice screamed "Oh my God he's let her go!" Then I realised that he had too and plummeted like a stone! From this point my mother regarded my dad as an unsafe swimming instructor and that was it for swimming until I was ten and had school lessons.

School lessons, unfortunately, did not go to plan either. Remember I was a child scared of water, I mean with a healthy respect for water. Well week one I climbed into the learner pool (4ft deep) full of enthusiasm. The instructor, a man who thought he was teaching Mark Spitz, marched across and said "Right, all put your heads under the water" I looked in horror. Surely this madman could not mean me? I would most definitely drown! I ignored him and stood shaking in the water. It was obviously a test to work out who the fools were. The madman, not being one to suffer wimps, then put his hand on my head and pushed me under! After considerable coughing and spluttering I retreated to the middle of the pool, where the madman could not reach me and burst into tears. We were then divided. The good swimmers were taken to the main pool with the madman - who my friends assured me was perfectly sane and an excellent swimming teacher who they all adored. Us duffers remained in the learner pool with the lovely Mrs Mott who was so good she taught me to swim within four weeks. I realised, however, that if you could swim a length you were moved up to the big pool with the scary man who tried to drown me (okay he didn't actually try to drown me, but I was ten and I saw things differently then) so as Mrs Mott said surprisingly I could swim seven widths straight off but could never quite make a length without having to stop halfway. I didn't manage one until the very last lesson, so I never made it up to the main pool. Surprising that.

I rarely swam again until a friend at school decided we should get fit together and off we went, gradually building up to twenty lengths quite quickly. I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. We went a few times every week and I became a good swimmer. Er well sort of.

We ensured our children learned to swim and I actually taught our youngest myself. Now that is how I found out that I was not the fantastic swimmer I thought. An instructor was in the pool one day and decided to help my son improve his strokes. As he corrected every fault I realised that I had taught my son every one of them. Quite an achievement. I bet none of you could teach as many bad strokes as I managed. Mind you it is difficult to swim perfectly whilst holding your head clear of the water.

After my disastrous attempt at running, and the various injuries I've had over recent months, I have decided to recommence my swimming career. Next week I shall be back to the pool , I may dip my head in the water as far as my chin and build up those lengths and my perfect strokes. So if there are any talent scouts out there looking for a future Olympic swimmer I should be ready by about 2054!

My Beautiful Coast

Whenever I start to talk to people who live some distance away about how I live in a small suburb of Liverpool and that we have a beautiful beach they look at me as though I have lost my mind. "You live near a big city with docks, your beach must be in your dreams!" When they eventually come to visit our coast they are always pleasantly surprised and often amazed that we have this small piece of heaven so close to a big city.

I have loved my beach since I was a small child. My mother and sister would pack a bottle of lemonade and sandwiches and off we would go for a day at the seaside with buckets and spades, collecting shells, looking for starfish. The magic and fun never ended.

My Dad would also take us down to the beach and he would tell us about all the ships coming and going, where they were from, where they were heading and the cargo they carried. He managed to make it all sound so amazing. He had been in the Royal Marines and sailed around the world but sometimes he would show me the ships and tell me how, when I grew up, they would take me anywhere I wanted to go and that I would see places that he had only dreamed of. Somehow I have made it to fifty and not sailed anywhere further than France but I do intend to rectify that and go visit some of the places my parents dreamed of.

As a teenager I used to go for beach picnics with my friends and sometimes, in the dead of winter, we would don wellies and waterproofs and go paddling in the rain while we put the world right and made future plans.

When I married I moved with my husband closer to our places of work and for four years I was unable to walk to my beach. I missed it so much. Moving back to Crosby was truly wonderful. It felt like a  real homecoming,even though we had lived a relatively short distance away. My husband loved the town immediately and asked me why I hadn't talked him into moving back much sooner.

We now have Antony Gormley's In Another Place on our beach and the Burbo Bank windfarm in the distance and, for someone who doesn't like change, I have been perfectly happy with both. The Iron Men are like family now. After all they do support the same football team as me. I have seen them wearing the shirts!

But above all my beach is my head-clearing place. Even now, when I have something to think about or my head needs clearing I go down there and, whether sunny or stormy, it sets me right. My sands, my waves - at least that's how it feels, constant and unchanging, always there waiting to wash my worries away.

I love my beach, if I have a spare ten minutes before I have to be there I drive down just to sit and look out across the bay at the ships coming and going and to see the waves rolling in. Maybe one day I'll buy a beach house to watch the sun rise and set there every day. In the meantime I go when I can and it always makes me feel welcome.

My Journey Through The Land of Books

The other day I was trying to decide which book I should read next. While considering this, I began to think about all the books I have read and what started me off on the journey through the wonderful land of literature. When I was a small child my dad always had a book in his hand: Kidnapped, The Count of Monte Cristo and Goodbye Mr Chips are three I remember him lying on the sofa reading. Yet it was not my dad who started me off on the land of books, it was my lovely Mum. I can remember her always producing books as I went to bed and then me lying there so happy reading them.

The first book I ever remember reading was the one above. My original copy was red. I think I was about four or five but I read and read it and loved it and, with Bunny Hopwell I waited for spring. My first book obviously stayed with me because I talked about it often enough for my husband to scour the internet and track the above copy down in America. From here I think I must have had every Ladybird book in history and read them till they fell apart.

When I was seven my top infant teacher read Black Beauty. I adored the story and my mother bought me the above copy. As you can tell it was very well read. I loved every page, every word, I passed it on to my daughter. She loved it. After Black Beauty came What Katy Did, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Pollyanna, Ballet Shoes. I adored them and as she grew up I read every one to my daughter at bedtime. She loved them too.

In my teens came poetry, courtesy of my English teacher who would not accept that I thought Keats overblown and soppy. As you can see he was successful. By the time I started A level I had bought all the above books and had spent my summer lying on the beach and in parks reading them. It was at that point that I decided that I would definitely marry a poet an if he did not write poetry then he would not do. I fantasised about Keats. I even dragged mother to Rome to visit his house and grave. Having taken her there I didn't actually have the courage to knock on the cemetery doors and ask to come in but at least I had walked the same streets as my beloved romantic.

In my twenties crime fiction became one of my favourite things to read, in particular Dorothy L Sayers and her wonderful Lord Peter Wimsey. My friend was a big fan too and we scoured the charity shops looking for clothes that would make us look like Harriet Vane. I think we actually hoped to find an aristocratic amateur sleuth. Alas we did not but the one in the books was quite enough for us both and we read and read those books. If you haven't, give them a try. If you want romance too go for 'Strong Poison' 'Have his Carcase' and 'Gaudy Night' 

By my mid twenties I moved on to romantic classics. Initially starting with Jane Austen, who I had studied for A level and then discovering the Brontes. I had read an abridged Wuthering Heights in my early teens (I still have that now) and been unimpressed. This time I adored every word of the sisters' books and began to  read their letters, biographies etc to a point my mother said was bordering on obsession. Once again, however, my mother acquiesced to my obsession and travelled to Haworth with me to visit the Parsonage. My obsession with the Brontes has never left me and every year my wonderful husband takes me back on that pilgrimage. He has even read the sisters' novels and while unimpressed with Emily was quite taken with Charlotte, my heroine. I shall work on introducing him to Anne next.

The next poet I struggled with was Ted Hughes. I loved his romantic words but for a long time struggled with his detail and tooth and claw descriptions of nature. I still struggle with some of his work but he has become quite a hero for me and his famed picture hangs in our hall. If you have never tried any Hughes, I would suggest that you begin with Birthday Letters, about his beloved wife Sylvia Plath. Crow is also a fine collection and maybe more suited to the less romantic hearts.

So have my obsessions subsided as I get older. I am aftaid not. About five years ago I discovered Simon Armitage. He is completely different from my usual choice of poet and truly wonderful. My husband often jokes that he is the only poet he worries about and that next time I go to a reading I must maintain a 250 yard exclusion order from said poet! He writes with heart, humour and truth. Black Roses made me sob for an hour. He walked the Pennine Way like a troubadour, reading poetry along the way to pay for his board and lodgings then the poetry he had written was carved in rock along the way. My family have been dragged on part of the Stanza Stone Walk and will be completing the rest soon. His latest work 'Considering the Poppy' was a limited addition publication - only one hundred printed, one of which I sadly was unable to find, despite my searches. 

Well, it was impossible for me to find, but not my wonderful husband. He presented me with the perfect Christmas present this year. Copy number 62, signed by poet and engraver. And so my collection is complete.

But the most perfect book of all is the one written especially for me by the poet I married.

For all its faults this is still a beautiful world

Today I read something really, really sad. According to a press report, a man fell to his death from a building. That in itself is a dreadful piece of news but  the article went on to say that, as police were trying to talk this poor man down, onlookers were shouting for him to jump. These people didn't even know the man, they had no idea about what had driven him to such a desperate position, they didn't care, they just watched with no empathy whatsoever and shouted such hateful things. How on earth did society fall so low?

I don't watch much television, and avoid reality programmes like Big Brother, and I'm a Celebrity totally. Soap operas seem to be full of hate, trauma and infidelity. I once asked a friend if there were any happily married couples who had a good life in any of them and was told "Don't be silly, that doesn't make good telly!" But why not? Why is people being happy, kind and understanding poor television? And if this is all people see as they grow up is it any wonder that they can become emotionless and detatched and have no feeling for a fellow human in need?

When I was growing up, my Dad would not even allow me the luxury of sulking, he would kneel down to my level and tell me "You can stop that young lady, you will smile at people. Some of them have dreadful lives and your smile may be the best thing to happen to them all day" I didn't dare sulk in front of Dad, poor Mum got that. But do you know something, my Dad was right. I have had many a bad day turned around by a friendly smile or a kind word. My parents always told me to try to see things from others' points of view and not to judge when you have no idea about people's lives.

In my lifetime I have seen terribly sad things happen but I have also seen wonderful things and true acts of love, some of them major things, some small ones that still have an impact on people's lives.

The day we moved into our Avenue one of our neighbours popped over to introduce themselves and to ask if we had unpacked the kettle or would like a tray of tea and biscuits bringing over, another brought a potted plant and we were left a nice bottle of wine. None of them overstayed their welcome but all made us feel truly at home within a few hours. All these people have become friends through sheer niceness. In our avenue everyone looks after everyone else, that is as it should be. Nobody is nosey or oversteps their place but they are supportive and are there at a moment's notice if needed. When you move here you become part of a caring community. That is what the whole world needs. People who care.

Over recent years we have had family losses that have broken our hearts, our neighbours have supported us and helped us through difficult times, some have had similar experiences and were able to empathise and guide us, those who hadn't, brought flowers and kind thoughts. My children have had support from their friends who are also very young. It is a wonderful feeling seeing human nature at its best and knowing that here cannot be the only place in the world with such compassion.

Indeed it is not. A few days ago I read about an elderly lady who makes a beautiful dress every day, adding an individual touch to each one to be sent out to the poorest children in the world, another act of pure love. Yesterday on Twitter I read a thank you from a Mummy to another mother who had donated her child's organs to keep her child alive. The world is full of these amazing, loving people.

Every act of kindness, no matter how small has a ripple effect, whether it is a smile, a kind word, taking time to help a neighbour, friend or stranger, all change the world for the better and I for one think that is a pretty amazing thing to do.

My Mum used to have a saying "Don't let the world drag you down" She was right. Sometimes we watch television dramas or news articles and believe this world to be a horrible place. Maybe it is, but it is also a truly wonderful place, full of good, kind people who make a difference and ensure that this is a world in which I wish to live and one in which I am happy to raise my children. So next time you find yourself telling somebody about an awful thing that has happened in the world, remember that there are also some pretty fantastic things happening out there, being performed by ordinary people who care a hell of a lot and, let's face it, are real superheroes.

Spring, new hopes, new beginnings, new you!

When winter came my mother used to shut down. She hated winter, She would be in bed before 9 pm, (when she was a child she would go up and settle at 5 to escape the dark nights and sleep right through). She said it felt like the world was dead and it made her sad. I could never understand this. I loved every season, autumn being my favourite of all, such rich colours and abundance of fruits. I loved crisp winter walks. Mum said it was too cold, too dark and there wasn't any colour to lift your moods through the gloomy, drizzly days. She would begin to come alive as spring arrived. I suppose in this day and age you would say that she suffered from S.A.D. - my mum just said that she was designed to hibernate like bears, /To be honest, she practically did!

As I have grown older, and particularly these last few years, I have become more like my mother. Little by little I have lost enthusiasm for my beloved autumn, it now seems sad, almost as though the year has grown old and is dying. Far too many people have died on me these last few years and autumn now seems to remind me of that. Last autumn I could still admire the beauty but I just felt sad. Even Christmas, which I still used to get excited about, has finally lost its sparkle.

The above may sound sad but I don't think that it is. I think that I have finally grown up and moved on to a new phase of my life. Maybe autumn was the season of my youth and spring is to be the season of my adulthood.

As spring has approached this year I have started to feel so much perkier and more positive. The plans I have. So much to do, so many new experiences to try. I have stopped dwelling on the past for the first time in god knows how long. Everything I think is about the future. My daughter told me the other day that I seem happy and confident these days. I do actually feel it. Talking through things with someone has made me realise that I have always tried to fit other people's view of who I should be and felt guilt about letting people down when it was no fault of my own. I am viewing myself and the world through a whole new window - and I like it. I have the courage to say no without explaining myself to people and I have the confidence to say yes when I want to as well. It is tremendously freeing. But oh how much time I have wasted just not being me. I would recommend everybody tries being themselves sometimes. It is truly wonderful. And, surprisingly, people like it too. One of my friends actually told me the other day that I have changed so much in recent years, becoming so much more confident and independent. She says she loves it!

And, as this spring approaches I am beginning to feel excited about all the new possibilities and, like the bluetit above, am making future plans and that future is so bright. My husband and children are the focus of my life but, I now also have a little bit of time to explore being Janet and that is oh so much freedom. My husband is probably already beginning to panic at the possibilities but I am just very excited. Who knows where my dreams will take me? Spring is a time for new beginnings and this year I intend to make the most of it!

Always a Mariner

Today I am not a happy Mariner. I watched my team play one of their worst games of the season. They did not seem to play as a team, they were scrappy. By half way through the second half I had lost the will to cheer, I had lost all enthusiasm and hit a point where I thought 'If they can't be bothered why should I?' I sat and watched in utter disbelief as my beloved team lost yet again.

That is the point at which, I am sad to say, I became what my Dad would have called a 'fair weather supporter'. His beloved Bill Shankly once said 'If you can't support us when we lose or draw, don't support us when we win'. That is just what I did today. I stopped supporting my team because they were losing again. They needed support more than ever, they needed encouragement, they had lost their self belief and they needed their fans to believe in them and help them to begin to get it back. This fan wasn't there to do that. Marine, I am very sorry.

Throughout this season I have watched my team lose quite a few matches, some days we have lost because we deserved to but those days were not as many as the ones we lost through unlucky breaks. As the season has progressed the team has become stronger, there are some amazingly talented players on that pitch. Talented players who need support. They are not overpaid sportsmen, full of their own self importance like those in the Premier League. They are hard working players who work full time and still turn up week in, week out for training sessions, go to away games after a hard days work and give their all for the sheer love of the game.

Today the match didn't pan out the way we wanted it. I don't know what is going wrong. That is our manager's job to know and to sort. What I do know is that my team of wonderful players deserved far more support than I offered them today. I want them to know that I still believe in them but most of all I want them to believe in themselves and I want them to go out next Saturday and show Whitby Town what a brilliant, amazing, talented team Marine are. I want them to stand with their heads held high and say 'Do you know something, we are class players!' because they are, and when they get their self belief back, well there is nothing they cannot achieve.

I also want them to know that, if the lucky breaks continue to go against us and the worse happens, I shall still be queuing up in July for my season ticket for the 2015/2016 season and I will be yelling so loudly they will have no doubt that they have support! I still do not think it will come to that though. I still believe our wonderful phoenixes can rise from the ashes and I, with them, will be ready for next Season because I am and always will be, a Mariner!

The British on Holiday (or What on Earth Were We Thinking?)

I have decided today to regale you with tales of the holidays of my youth. Not my early childhood, I don't remember any disasters when I was little - The Isle of Man always seemed to be perfect - apart from my brother holding me over the side of the ferry whilst telling me there were sharks below! The sun shone, the fairies made the glens glow, the trams always ran on time and got us where we wanted to go and my Dad, brother and Grandad always caught fish for tea.

So what happened when I hit my teens? Probably over-enthusiam.  When we decided to go somewhere we picked the first B&B we could find in the guide book, booked and went - usually by train - now that was exciting. 

So onto our great adventures. Well, adventure 1 - Scarborough. As you know I am a huge Bronte fan. Well I had been to Haworth and seen where they lived and where two of the sisters were buried, all that I needed to do was make a pilgrimage to the place Anne Bronte died and was buried. B&B book out, option number one, right by St Mary's Church with sea views, what could be better? Booked! 15 year old me and my mother excitedly boarded the train to the Costa del Yorkshire. 

We arrived at our B&B and were shown to our room. It was in the attic. To be fair it did have a sea view, as long as you stood on a chair, clung onto the rooftop window and peered over the church. Not to be disheartened by such setbacks we began unpacking. I opened up my suitcase and then opened up the wardrobe doors. That was mistake number two. The original doors had obviously broken and been replaced, unfortunately by ones that were far heavier than the actual wardrobe. If you opened the doors, without the weight of clothes inside, it fell on you. Fortunately my Mum caught it before it completely flattened me!

After tea we asked the owner how to get to the front. Well the quickest way is through the churchyard. Okay fine. We did that, then decended about 100 steps into the town, had a lovely time. When it was time to come home we realised it was dark and we had to climb up 100 steps and walk through a poorly lit graveyard to get back. As we got to the B&B my Mum asked if I was okay. I told her I was fine, I had just closed my eyes and clung on to her until we were through. "Oh so did I" said Mum. How we got through, that night or every night after I'll never know. Probably sheer will power. 

It was actually a lovely place to stay and a great improvement on the previous year when we had visited Margate staying in a 'carefully selected' B&B. We were staying in a chalet adjoining the house. That chalet turned out to be the brick shed in the garden which had had a window added and a rail attached diagonally in the corner in lieu of a wardrobe. To access the loo you had to walk across the yard and through the patio doors into the house. The doors were closed at 12 when the owners went to bed so you couldn't drink to much before bedtime!

The year I was 16 we decided to be adventurous. Eight family members, aunts, inlaws and us booked a villa in Malta. It was my first time on a plane. Obviously I didn't freak out when I saw how tiny the windows were and make a break for the door, yelling that I couldn't sit there for hours and nobody could make me, obviously I didn't then have to be calmed down and treated like a five year old and asked to sit in my seat like a good girl and I'd soon be able to see fluffy clouds and there'd be a lovely meal and it would be over before I knew it. I mean that would be ridiculous wouldn't it? Ahem.

I come from a long line of calm, rational women, my Mum and Aunt being two of them. As we arrived at the villa. there were lizards running up the wall and through the air vents. My brother, sister in law and I  trotted in. My uncle followed a few minutes later to ask for help to "get the panicking women in" For two whole weeks we had to hold their arms and time it so that we ran them in as the lizards disappeared. This all went fine until the day before we returned home, when my sister in law's father asked "You know those air vents? Don't they go inside the villa?" There was a look of "Noooooo" from five of us. Needless to say some people didn't sleep that night!

The second week of the holidays it was deemed a good idea to hire a minibus as my brother is a great driver. We bought a map and set off for adventure. In those days Malta only had one set of traffic lights for the whole island. Then there was the question of do they drive on the left or the right? This was soon resolved through experience. In Malta everyone drives in the shade and whoever is biggest goes first!

The most adventurous trip we made was to the Blue Grotto for a sail through the beautiful caves. We set off early one morning.My brother was driving, my sister in law had bailed out as navigator and I was in the passenger seat directing. My brother decided that he didn't need help and could get there himself. We passed a group of old men sitting outside a shop, twice! I pointed this out and my brother told me that they were not the same men. Ten minutes later we passed them again. Then my navigational skills came to the fore. "We should have taken a left here" We did and began to climb a mountain path, which gradually became a single carriageway mountain path. We all joked about hoping we didn't meet someone coming the other way and laughed nervously. Then, it happened. The road finished. Cliff face ahead, sheer drop to the side. As I say, my brother is an amazing driver, which he proved that day when he reversed a minibus down that cliff! We set off again and, when we passed the old men for the fourth time it was finally accepted that the women's view of stop and ask someone might have some validity. We popped into the shop, map in hand to ask. The shop keeper informed us "That maps no good, we make those for the tourists, most of the roads aren't on them." He then directed us to the Blue Grotto and we arrived without further ado...... to find a sign telling us it was closed for the day because the water was too rough!!!

I could regale you with tales of my holidays all day, surfing upside down under a surfboard in Cornwall with my friends expert surfer cousins, being piggy backed down a mountain after losing both my skis in a collision, which European hospital is best -I have tested out quite a few after trying various sports and local cuisines, but I feel this blog is probably long enough,  and anyway, what would I write in future ones if I tell you everything at once?

A Garden is a gym, a therapist, a friend and a delightful, intimate cafe

My garden is one of my favourite places to be. I am already making lots of plans for it for next summer.  This will involve a lot of digging, hammering, painting, planting and my husband building me a new raised herb planter. Oops haven't told him that yet and he reads my blog - sorry darling, love you x

When I was growing up my Dad was the gardener. We had a beautiful garden full of flowers and herbs. I just left him to it and played in it, mud pies were my speciality! After he passed away my Mum just kept the garden tidy, it was Dad's domain not hers, she worked in it with him. gradually it became mostly lawn. So I never really ventured out into it much apart from to laze in the sun and read books.

When I married I acquired an amazing Mother-in-law who could have worked for the RHS. She could grow anything and knew so much about horticulture. When we moved into this house she immediately came to visit, told me what all the shrubs were and how to care for them. We have two very small gardens, my parents-in-law is huge. At first I thought that meant I couldn't do much but my lovely Mother in law bought me a book on Courtyard gardens and told me that by time the children have grown up and I am getting older I will be glad to only have small gardens to tend and that the possibilities were endless. She filled me with so much enthusiasm. By the time she had returned to Malvern I was out there planning and redesigning my garden. It is now totally different to the one I inherited which was a low maintenance one as it had belonged to two teachers who were far too busy for such things.

As soon as spring arrives I am out digging, pruning and planting. My husband often tells me that we really cannot fit any more into it but fortunately we do have a garden like a tardis and it always seems to squeeze things in. A few years ago it was two apple trees and fruit bushes to be squeezed in. Of course they fitted- it was perfectly planned! The harvest was delicious this year. Whenever I cannot squeeze something into my garden I just buy a new planter. The last visit my Mother-in-law made here she looked at the planters covering the patio and down the side of the house and said "You know Janet, you really need a bigger garden" then laughed. I probably do but if I did get the garden of my dreams my poor husband would never see me!

So, why is a garden so wonderful? Well it relieves so many of life's stresses, far better than any therapist. An hour out breathing fresh air, digging, pruning and watching the wildlife out there and peace and tranquility is restored.

It is also a wonderful gym, by time I had dug up and relocated the orange blossom to make room for one of the apple trees I had certainly worked off plenty of calories. And, in case you are wondering, all are growing beautifully.

Last of all it makes a delightful cafe in the summer, sitting out there whether alone or with friends is absolute heaven. The colours and scents of the flowers, the sounds of the bees, butterflies fluttering everywhere and all the visiting birds mean that you can never get bored. In all honesty I could sit out there all summer, I could even be tempted to camp out to check what I miss of a nighttime. We have some lovely pipistrelle bats who fly across the front of the house in summer and I have heard a little owl too and we have at least one fox, but what else comes to visit?

Winter tends to leave gardeners a little sad, I so miss being out there and getting busy. I used to plant vegetables and flowers with the children at this time of year but they have reached an age where their windowsills are their own domain to be filled with tardises and engines not Mum's indoor gardens. Never been faint hearted though. Gardening magazines have been purchased, Hessayon books out and this year's garden makeover is about to be planned. May have some more suggestions for my husband's carpentry skills, which will delight him, but just wait till he sees it finished!