As one door opens, so another closes

I’m sitting here on St Patrick’s Day having had every intention of going out this evening.

We’ve already had a pretty full day. The big bright yellow thing that makes us all warm reappeared and it looks like spring may finally be on the way, so I’ve been in the garden at our kids’ house since 8 this morning alongside my friend and excellent gardener Emma. Then at lunchtime it was off to the Scallop Shell for my mother-in-law’s birthday — she’s called Patricia for good reason — and a lovely time was had by all, including the kids and her little brother Frank, who we last saw back in January for his 80th.

We all decided after lunch we needed a rest, and although I even sprang off the sofa at six fully intending to head out again, I just don’t want to. It’s too loud, too hectic, and after a solid run of Six Nations weekends, I’ve simply had enough. I’ve got my stained glass course in the morning and, if I’m honest, I’ve been in full-on building mode since January — not physically building yet, as someone else has taken the reins on that part, but building the next thing on paper, in plans, in files, in my head. And in the last week, that momentum has dipped a bit. So I thought I’d do something about it and finally say it out loud.

What I’m working on is a making space. And in the last week, the funding needed to get it off the ground has been agreed in principle. So — deep breath, fingers crossed — it’s happening. It’s on Walcot Street.

In many ways, it feels like a quiet tribute to my dad. Before he became a psychotherapist, he was an exceptional builder, and for years he talked about how much he was looking forward to having a workshop of his own when he retired. He never got to do that. And as someone who also likes making things, that has stayed with me more than I perhaps realised at the time. It brings things into focus in a way that’s hard to ignore: you only get one go.

The building itself has been empty for over a decade, but someone bought it a year or two ago and brought it back to life, and now I’m lucky enough to be taking on the shop part. The plan is to turn it into a making space with a small retail area — not full of plastic kits or things I wouldn’t know what to do with anyway, but somewhere people can come, take a breath, have a chat, and work on things with their hands, whether they’ve ever done that before or not.

Which all sounds great. And it is. But the last week has also been, if I’m honest, pretty shit. Sure I created an amazingly functional space for the kids house with a lot of help from friends and himself, made a breakthrough with my stained glass project, spent precious time with family, even finally got time to see Poster Power with Jonny....all overshadowed by the worst sadness....two people from my world passing away within days of each other. One far too young at 33, and the other not much older than me, which was also way too young and who I had only just begun to get to know properly. We’d had a couple of coffees over the past few weeks and they had been so excited by the idea of the new place and the sort of place it could become, they had made it infectious.  But more than that, they were thoughtful, generous with ideas and — perhaps most importantly — very kind.

It’s a strange thing, how much encouragement from the right person can matter, even if it only arrives briefly. I realised afterwards that this belief in what I was talking about probably pushed me further along than I might have gone on my own. Not because I needed permission exactly, but because sometimes having someone else genuinely see what you’re trying to build makes it feel real in a way you can’t ignore.

And so, I’ve decided not to ignore it.

Losing people has a way of rearranging your thinking whether you want it to or not. It brings the fragility of time into sharp focus. We all know that in theory, but every now and then life insists on showing you in practice. And when that happens, you’re left with a choice: retreat a little further into caution, or get on with the things that matter while you still can.

For me, it seems to be the latter.

So — I’m off to India.

I’ve always wanted to go. The people, the food, the heat, the colour, the noise, the complete sensory overload of it all — and now, finally, I am. I’ll be heading out with my youngest, flying into Delhi and then taking the train to Jaipur in Rajasthan, where we’ll stay with a family in an old haveli, practise yoga each morning, and spend time visiting workshops and meeting craftspeople.

It also happens to be where my great-grandfather was from and now, more than any other time, it absolutely feels like the right time to go. To see things. To learn. To bring things back that aren't just ideas. Because this making space has never really been about a shop. It’s about creating somewhere people can come together to make things by hand, to share skills, ideas, time and patience. Not a loud place, not a competitive one — just somewhere that values curiosity, craft and community. In that sense, it’s probably not about making objects at all. It’s about making space. And that, I think, is why it suddenly feels so important to begin.

Life is far too unpredictable to spend too long waiting for the perfect moment. Sometimes the moment arrives whether you feel ready or not. Sometimes the best thing you can do is take a breath, say yes, and start building the thing that’s been sitting quietly in the background for years. Or, in this case, get on a plane to India and make it inevitable.

There will be plenty of practicalities ahead — paperwork, paint, tools, and getting my shopping list right for Jaipur — but underneath all of that there is a much simpler intention. To make something good. To make somewhere kind. And to do it while I still have the time — and the energy.

Although, clearly, not quite enough energy to go out again on St Patrick’s Day.