HERE COMES APRIL'S FOOL

So what happened to March. In Rural Perthshire, it came in with sub-zero temperatures and left with a baltic blast. I took to drinking a heady mixture of Baileys, Cointreau and Amaretto just to keep the hell warm. It left my head somewhat fuzzy, I have to say, and this does have something to do with the lack of inane comment on this blog.
No loss there then, I hear you say. But, if you have a morsel of compassion, think on this. For six months now, Notes from Rural Perthshire helped to quieten my raging existential anxiety. It had given my life intrinsic meaning. Note the past tense.
March was a wilderness - within and without. I struggled with sobriety and identity. I battled with invisible demons and persistent split ends. I lost what small sense of proportion I had. I was bereft. That's such a good word.
Finally, I knew what I had to do.
Yes folks! I'm back!