Goodbye Wellington...

It's great, you know, when you're preparing to spend some months traveling, and you get to put all your seasonally unsuitable clothing into storage.

Heading to those hot, humid, sunny countries means packing away all the boots, the coats. The beanies and gloves. You take the time to say goodbye to all the suede, fur, and wool that your animal-killing heart so softly desires. You're left with the singlets and slinky dresses. Clothes with little substance or moral fibre, but plenty of efficiency for sun and fun.

Then you realise you've still got a couple of days left in New Zealand, but that's OK, because you've got a suitcase full of holiday attire, and our summers here are so lovely and consistent.

And then you remember that song on the radio you once heard and wasn't it something about four seasons in one day?

And then, like that other song you once heard by that indy poppy Canadian woman about needing a knife instead of a cutlery drawer full of inappropriate utensils, Wellington decides to rain. Heavily. For ages. And ages.

No sun. No fun.

Ok. So you've got to pop out for a coffee, jump to the post shop, and oh, there was that meeting at the bank. You realise you can either wear a) short shorts, b) water wings, or c) jandals. So you opt for d) all of the above, with the option of e) snazzy sunglasses. I guess, given the standard dress code and activity of Newtown, a partly clad female power walking down Adelaide Road in her bikini on a Monday at 9am in the pouring rain is completely regular.

I hope it gets me a great deal on my travel insurance.

Thanks Wellington. Next stop, Chrimeschurch.