I have a confession to make. I am not enjoying running the gardening club as much as usual. Usually, I’m well aware of reasons I may be feeling generally miserable, even if it takes a few days, but this time? This time I’ve drawn a blank.

It ’s a puzzle because I’ve absolutely loved the club. Obviously I wouldn’t have started it if I didn’t. And the children are a joy; they’re hard working, enthusiastic. You should have seen and heard their delight when I told them the dead looking bush I was holding was in fact a blueberry bush!

So it’s not the children and it’s not gardening. Although the actual garden itself is quite frustrating to work in. It’s small and too close to an ancient and huge oak tree but it’s all we’ve got. A polytunnel? Greenhouse? Oh, how I dream.

Getting the children to remember to water the seedlings is always a problem and there are no handy windowsills on which to propagate our plants. I have in the past taken trays of compost and seeds home but that’s always quite fraught and has, on occasion, let to messy disaster.

This term there’s also been a higher than normal turnover in members which can dent your confidence somewhat. I worry that the jobs don’t get shared out equally, that quieter members might easily take a back seat. That the club isn’t fun. What to do about a new helper who isn’t terribly helpful. That I’m a rubbish leader. Yeah, I’m worrying a lot.

There’s also last year’s surprise attack on my methods and general running of the club from a totally unexpected quarter which has, I realise as I write, still rather taken the wind out of my sails. Actually, it’s done more than that, it’s damaged the boat and despite my frantic baling I fear it’s sinking.

But all is not lost! Tenacious by nature, I refuse to relegate my love for the club to the compost heap. I’m sure it’s there, buried quite deep, having had lots of manure piled on top. I just need to wait for the sun to shine a bit before it blooms once more.