A distress call, or a celebration of the beginnings of summer?  Either way, along with the biennial flowering of our honesty, May Day’s taken me by surprise.

It feels as if we’re only just beginning to put the grey days of February behind us. I need to remind myself that we’ve already celebrated Easter and a clutch of spring birthdays, and enjoyed some sunny days. I’ve spent several long days in the garden and been lulled into a false sense of security that it might be ok to plant out some of last year’s carefully nurtured seedlings. The sweet-peas, seeds planted outside a few weeks ago, are cautiously emerging from the soil bringing hope and anticipation for the summer ahead.

I’ve been pleasantly distracted, not only by the garden, but also by my adventure back into academic life. Four decades on from graduation, I’ve become a student again. No regrets, I’m bringing my life experience into the world of creative writing. And loving it. Freed from the world of financial reporting, my creative side has been unleashed.  It turns out that some of my stuff is quite good, people actually like to read it. I’ve battled with my biggest critic, the inner one, the one that labels me imposter.

‘What are you writing?’ Mr A asks often.  ‘Nothing much, just course-work,’ is my usual reply. Nothing to see here… I’ve changed tack now. This week, I let him see some work in draft. ‘I’ve written another story,’ I said. ‘Would you like to read it? Tell me what you think is happening here…You don’t have to, not unless you want to…’ His verdict, ‘gripping’, combined with a handful of pencilled editing marks, has left the imposter within me temporarily maimed.

And yes, to those who like to ask, this granny does still run. Three short runs last week. And I’m off on a writing retreat at the weekend, filled with good intentions that my running shoes will punctuate my days. I will return with better habits.