On June the 28th I stomped into my midwife's kitchen after an all day induction (which had all the markings of doom and ended beautifully - humbling my cynical self nicely) and announced that June was officially over for me, because I refused to participate further in the nerve-grinding schedule it was throwing at me. Since then, life has cooperatively lulled off and been an unremarkable series of cleaning, packing, sorting, paying bills, visiting the recently birthed and pilfering food from aforementioned kitchen (and the kitchens of her family). Throw in a random Canadian visitor who hustled me off to the 'big' city of Wellington (half a million people, maybe?) - with the resultant effect being the number of shirts that actually cover the intended anatomy in my wardrobe doubling - and there's two weeks going by. Which is good. . . because I'm counting them.