Pandora's Box

Dear hearts,

I promised you Pandora's Box.

And here it is. Just ask the baby about Pandora's Box...Just ask Sha ron Morrie...The songbird fell in love with the Italian artisan of the car panel there, so she is the last one to consult...

As for myself, I'm kind of at peace with the whole experience. But it was tough. No question.

After we left the Big House and the most recent charm who was very much less than charming (and yes I will explain), in somewhat less than amicable circumstances, it was to Pandora’s Box we decamped. I don’t use the word camp lightly either.

The Big House had everything a girl could want. A pavillion boudoir set in the rainforest with a Peter Pan walkway to the living pavilion. Which made its salubrious way out to the terrace that overlooked the Coral Sea, Double Island and all the little fishy’s on their way north to Port Douglas. A 180 degree panorama of ocean and sky. And don’t get me started on the Full moon…

Choose your pool as one waterfalled it’s watery way into the next. The Bright Young Things had their wing and all lived happily under the architect designed tropical roof.

Until the charm lost his charm…

Pandora’s Box on the other hand was a makeshift “high set Queenslander” (note the inverted comma’s) of indiscriminate and dubious proportions. When one walked down the hall to the communal bedroom that the baby and I shared, the structure swayed its hips with a disconcerting rhythm that was far from alluring. The promise of landscaping from the landlord never materialized and the “moon dust” as the Bright Young Things christened it, flurried its way into our clothes, noses and beds, but never our hearts, Dear hearts, let me tell you.

With walls flimsier than a paper lantern Miss Mich was forced to have her late night conversations with her legal eagle out on said moon dust covered deck, under the cover of blankets in the middle of our northern winter…and yes it does get cold…

No car until our legal savior provided Granny’s car, made the weekends interminably long, but Miss Mich’s thighs terribly fit from walking, walking just to get away…Sha ron Morrie will forever be Miss Mich’s BFF for the kindness of driving her to and from the city and their shared place of employment.

The less said about the neighbours the better. Miss Mich has blocked out the smells, sounds and close proximity of the folk who confirmed in Miss Mich’s mind that indeed, she did not belong on the flat. The Big House is on the very same hill where the darling Cottage is. Miss Mich has the same neighbours, same gardener and almost the same view. The air up here, Dear hearts, is so much clearer than that below. Please do not think Miss Mich is being elitist. It is just that her head is clearer and her heart happier a little closer to the clouds.

All in all, Pandora’s Box was a small segueway on the road to enlightenment. A little purgatory for the Catholic in Miss Mich. A reminder, if Miss Mich should ever forget her Hail Mary’s, or forsake her faith, that straight back to the flat will she be banished.

Enjoy Thursday and redemption.

With love
Miss Mich