Enter...the Nigelator

He's big, he's bald and he's 18 lbs. of drooly, flatulent fun. He's also sleeping soundly in the baby carrier as I type this blog entry.

I've nothing of great profundity to relate at this moment in time. My Muse has not only left the building, she's disappeared up the road and permanently parked her inspiration on a bar stool at McCartney's Irish Pub. Damn fickle wench. Oh well. I'm content to wait out this creative dry-spell whilst occupying myself with the chores of motherhood. Yippee.