Life... and the flight of the bumble bee...

Here ends my tragi-comic nine month at Palmerston North. The work here has come to an end; the lives saved, the hunger nourished and the tuberculosis fiasco has spread like herpes on steroids. My job here is done. I fair welled all my immensely good looking friends, ignored all the fuglee ones and took off in to the sunset (well sunrise really, since I left at 7.30 in the morning).

The drive to Wellington was fairly uneventful. I have grown accustomed to the rather pedestrian road traffic of Palmerston North, so the trip was lively and suited my eager-beaver temperament of the day. Once I have navigated through the various rat maze to arrive at the ferry terminal, I was greeted with the following:

Awesome. Nice to see people making at least some vague attempt at socialising these days. Even if it involves being surrounded by unsavory parts of someones' anatomy.

The boat ride was, again, fairly uneventful. I took the time out to watch Robot Chicken on my notebook. For the people who have not seen the show, it is a puppet show of sorts made by Seith Green. It has a large element of sick twisted humour with a dash of subtle vulgarity on top. After my funny bone was tickled to the point of unconsciousness I woke up and took some obligatory photos of the Cook Straight:

After much 'oooo'ing and 'ahhhh'ing at the young (but legal) European fauna, the drive down to Christchurch was surprisingly quick. It only took me a period of no longer than four hours and ten minutes to arrive at the serene sanctity of my parents house, where I shall leech and rob them of their foodstuffs for the next successive three month. Life shall be good.