Black Sheep

I don't know if it's the result of being sober, or my age, or my recent brush with possible death, but I've been affected more by the signs of Spring this year than ever before.

The branches laden with blossom, daffodils in the hedgerows and newborns in the fields all strike me as unbearably poignant.

We're in Scotland for Easter, and the field at the back of the house is filled with tiny, Instagram-worthy, frisky little lambs.

They're all snow white except one, who's jet black from the tip of his tiny nose to the end of his twitchy tail.

I'm with you, buddy.

I've always felt an affinity with the black sheep. I've always seen myself as a rebel. I've always wanted to colour outside the lines, push the boundaries, break the rules and ignore the government guidelines.

One thing I still struggle with about being sober is the thought of being too good.

But then I looked at all the lambs playing in the field and I thought if those are a bunch of people out on a Friday night, then which one is the black sheep? Which is the outlier, the rebel, the individual?

It's me. It's us. It's those of us brave enough not to drink when everyone else is.

So, feeling reassured that I've still got 'it', I went to the fridge for a Beck's Blue and spotted the redcurrant jelly and mint sauce, all ready for the traditional Easter leg of lamb.

What do you think the family would say to a nice nut roast?

Happy Easter to you all,

SM x