Like a hedgehog waking, snout twitching, life resuscitated, shaking off detritus and depression, eyes blinking in sunlight, rustling through dead leaves, still shivering, I make apologies for the drought of words, although I am very impressed by the number of visitors still coming to this site. Thanks for that, and it's good to be back.
Nothing much to report, other than I've been writing and am now editing the first draft of a book, lighting a fire, chopping wood, watching the dark clouds blow by, up and over the hillside, dusted lightly by winter snow, never settling long, finding entertainment in Trump, and pitying those Americans with an ounce of sense who now suffer under the dismal shame of him. Walking the dog, staring at sheep staring at me, rebuking the dog for eating cow shit that she finds delicious, hunters appearing from the gloom, shotgun on shoulder for rabbits, pheasants and deer.
After an endless round of hospital visits, it takes a while, gawping at amazing views of the Tay estuary over to Wormit and Balmerino, it seems that my health is pretty much ok now, recuperation complete, millions of zeds stacked while sleeping like a log, as sober as a judge, and my thoughts turn to another passage to India, further treatment on my leg and back, which are playing up again. "Come back, if the pain returns," a fetching English hippy-chick once told me on a bar stool in Baga Goa, Indian Ocean lapping on the shoreline nearby.
But before any of that eastern mysticism begins, there will be a quick bounce over to Bohemia to sort out my apartment post-attempted-burglary, to fix the door, chit-chat with the cops, rent it out, a kiss for the missus and a ride in Spring sun, daisies pushing up through soft soil.