“Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?” (Robert Browning, in Andrea del Sarto, 1855)

I have phased out the care regime for the farthest of my physical extremities and will no longer attempt to trim or prod my pedicuticles. Pretty soon, even the trusty foot buffer will be retired as I have neither the energy nor suppleness for a sustained battle against dragon scales. Fortunately it's still a bit fresh outdoors to be wearing open-toed sandals or flip-flops: I'll only start offending people's sensitivities come end-May/June.

This is me at 27.5 weeks:

(jeans: from Ai-Leng in London; blouse: from Mom in Singapore; kukui nut lei: from Greg in Hawai'i AGES ago; artwork: by my graffiti-writing husband)

The underside of my increasingly rotund tummy has been the dark side of the moon for many weeks now. It is, indeed, where 'the sun don't shine' - mysterious, sometimes forgotten, and always damn itchy. I warned Ste against pointing at it, lest the mythical lunar rabbit/maiden takes a vengeful snip at his ear lobes.

This prime belly meat property remains within reach, but completely beyond my field of vision. Colonies of foreign organisms could set up entire space station complexes there and I wouldn't even know. Heck, they might already have planted some flags and parceled out large tracts behind my back (though technically, it is in front). Somewhat reassuringly, I haven't started pulling random biscuit crumbs or stationery into orbit yet. Now wouldn't that be a lark ...

I'll keep you posted. Till then - this is Zurich, over and out.