Falling in love can be bloody inconvenient. Let's inventory, shall we? State of my professional life: Brilliant, if counted in terms of sales of Hazel the Hippo books, the substantial proceeds from selling my New Zealand glamping business, and any number of glossy magazine articles about my charmed existence. Of course, I couldn't seem to write or draw anymore, but that would pass. Surely. State of my personal life: Murky. A mysterious siren I was not, in my nursing bra and only-kind-that-fits maternity panties. My three redheaded children? Good thing. Good, exhausting, frustrating, terrifying, wonderful thing. My marriage? Living with a failing marriage is like living with a toothache. It's not going to get any better, and eventually, it's going to get heaps worse, but who wants a root canal? Beginning to fall for the much-too-charming, not-quite-available, stone-cold-beautiful Dr. Matiu Te Mana, on the day he delivered the third of those children on the grass outside Otago General Hospital, a few short minutes before my marriage began its spectacular and very public final implosion? Possibly tricky.