It's happening again. I'm having a spring spurt. I'm fidgety and full of energy and I hate that it's raining and I have to do the ironing instead of being outside. Yesterday I decided to build a garden gate. It was really very easy, a bit like making a wooden curtain. I can't make curtains, mainly because I don't much care for sewing, but I recently went to a shop and undertook the tricky and technical business of ordering a pair.

My friend Julie told me about a great fabric shop in the tweedy town of Tavistock. I don't visit Tavistock that often because it's a long schlep across the moor, but it's a beautiful town, especially on a bright, Spring morning when you've got nothing to do except take your youngest daughter out to lunch.

Julie told me that the shop was run by two sisters, one very pretty and one very plain. We decided it would be best to go for the plain one, as she'd feel grateful for the attention and might give me a bigger discount. But in the end I got the pretty assistant, who was fearfully efficient and incredibly helpful. The textile shop was stuffed to the rafters with rolls and rolls of material, all stood on end like an impenetrable migraine-inducing forest of cloth. (I'd like to see Ray Mears try and hack his way through that lot - and he could spend all day rubbing those long cardboard tubes together but he'd never get them to light.)

There was no order, no method to the material madness, and whilst I was there, one poor customer was set upon by several rolls of colourful dress fabric that clearly had some kind of grudge against women whose shoes don't match their handbags; the woman managed to escape eventually, but I think she may have sustained mild concussion, because she ended up buying a quantity of silk chiffon to make into a headscarf for her Labrador.

Frankly, I found the whole place quite oppressive and menacing; I know it's hard to think of fabric as scary, but if you'd had the indignity of having to make a revolting bile green a-line skirt at school, as I had, then you'd know that hell is a place of thin paper patterns, and the devil walks abroad with a small elasticated pad on her wrist all set about with pins, which she sticks into sinners to make their hems all crooked.

I had Alice with me in the shop, which did give me some comfort, because I had no clue where to begin looking. The pretty assistant knew the location of each and every roll of fabric in the chaotic jumble of her emporium. She heard the words, 'something in cream or beige', and went straight to the loveliest roll of curtain material in the shop. I went 'Oooh', Alice went, 'Aaah', I felt the softness, admired the quality and the thickness, Alice admired the delicate vine pattern that snaked up the face of the cloth, and we both said yes. I gave the girl some measurements - something to do with drop and width, but don't ask me to explain because I'm clueless when it comes to understanding how anyone works out how much material is needed for curtains. It's all to do with width apparently, which, as a rule, is true of many things in life. The clothmeister did some sums on her calculator and the deal was done. I paid her some money and she said she would presently turn the roll of cloth into a perfectly puckered pair of drapes. Don't ask me how - but if Rumplestiltskin can weave straw into gold, then how hard can it be?


Back to the barn and the garden gate. A plan for constructing a wooden structure is not unlike a dress pattern. You have measurements and some drawings, you can see how to cut, and where, and all you have to do is try to be methodical about what you're doing, and always remember that once you've cut off too much, you can't stick it back on again. When I'm working I like to wear my Gertrude Jekyll boots - they're the muddy ones you can see on the front of my diary page. (For those of you who don't know, Gertrude Jekyll was an eminent Victorian and a pioneer in garden design. She was one of the leading lights of the Arts and Crafts movement, and is credited with the invention of the herbaceous border. Her battered gardening boots were painted for the wife of Sir Edwin Lutchyns and the painting now hangs in the Tate gallery). The Jekyll boots are not the most elegant item of footwear, but they are right for the job and they make me feel confident in what I'm doing. I have learned from painful experience that wood is heavy and nails are sharp, and my big, ugly boots protect my feet from all manner of workshop mishaps. I also have a saw bench, which holds the wood steady when I'm working on it. Having sawn through my thumb nail whilst resting a length of wood on a small stool, I have learned that it pays to be careful.

I made the garden gate in no time at all, and once I had finished I immediately wanted to get some more wood and make something else. I found a plan on the Internet for a dog house, which would make a perfect project - the only problem being that we don't yet have a dog. I'm toying with the idea of getting one, but realise what a tie they can be. That won't stop me building the dog house though, because I figure I can always use it as a place to send my girls when they get too cheeky.

My attentions this year are focussed on the lane at the front of my house. The lane has a certain rustic charm, it has to be said, but when I had the house valued last year a snooty estate agent was so repulsed by the brambly bank and unsightly log store that she actually suggest I should think about making an entrance at the back of the house, which is a bit like telling someone that they are so ugly they should consider walking backwards. Apparently, buyers from London would find the lane way too scruffy, and would no doubt scurry back to Islington in disgust at the bucolic barbarism of my entrance way. No bad thing if you ask me.

But the brambles are now as unkempt and unruly as a Belarus shot putter's bikini line and something has to be done. I took down the log store on Sunday with the help of my girls, and it never fails to amaze me just how much they enjoy doing practical tasks with their mum. There's nothing as satisfying as bashing away at something hard with a lump hammer, and easing out nails with a big brute of a crowbar. They loved every minute of it and we all stayed out in the driving rain until we were too cold and wet to continue.

I'm not even going to attempt to tackle the job of sorting the lane out by myself, which means I have to get a man in to do it for me. The first bloke who came to price for the job was perfect, in that he was wearing shorts and had lovely muscular legs - unfortunately he couldn't do all that I required of him, so I had to send him away. The next bloke who came was driving a vulgar Jap truck and had hair that was crisp and shiny with gel. He was a bit too young and green for my liking, so he was also out of the question. Then I saw Colin, a man who came with a glowing recommendation. He was a bit vague and so forgetful that he had to be poked with a stick in order to finish a sentence, but he understood perfectly what I required and he's the man for the job. He's got good Devon 'bays' working for him and I know he'll transform my lane, without turning it into a ticky-tacky tarmac eyesore.

I'm going to take my girls to the local garden centre so they can each buy a tree to plant in memory of their daddy; I'm going to have gates at the entrance, new turf and sparkly new gravel. And next time I get a visit from a sour-faced property pimp I'll be able to nod and smile as she prostrates herself before me and begs to sell my house. And then I'll tell her that she can take her shiny brochure and her 3% commission, and stick it.


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