Sex in the Summer

Dear hearts,

The heat has finally hit the far far north. This being Miss Mich’s sixth summer it would be assumed that Summer is as Summer does. But this summer is different. For lots of reasons.

Allow Miss Mich to elucidate.

Firstly, the Libertine and I are engaging in something new. Something new and exciting. It could be described as a little bit naughty, but for liberals such as us, we see it as a natural progression of this thing we have going on…

Some may call it a ménage a trios. Some may call it fooling around with nature. Whatever, the window to engage is brief and fleeting, the timing must be precise, the fit just so and the delivery delicate and with intent.

Get all of the components just right and the excitement at the moment of coupling is exquisite.

Flower Sex. Yes. Capital letter for a capital bit of flower hanky panky.

I prefer to set the scene with a little Marvin Gaye or Barry White. As you know I love to fool around in the morning, well anytime really. But it appears that these males and females prefer to make themselves alluringly available first thing in the am. That’s all right by me. The delicate perfume of the frangipani’s and the dew underfoot makes for sensory heaven. No wonder the female chooses the softness of sleepy 6am to spread her petals and expose her sticky stigma and all her feminine wiles. This is where the third player comes in. I slip into a little slip so that we all feel something silky against our skin and search out the upstanding male. He is more than happy to be assisted to expose his sprightly and ready stamen. (reminds me of you know who – always at the ever ready, hmmm). It is then the delicate matter of bringing anther and stigma together. We all blush but I can’t look away Dear hearts, such is our moment of conception. We all release a little sigh as pollen does what pollen does.

Our valiant males’ work is done and it is now up to our enduring female to carry on.

Who would have thought that gardening could be so much fun.

The Libertine and I watch closely the progress of our progeny and look forward to reaping the fruits of our labour and our flowers’ loins. I love a good metaphor Dear hearts and this is just too much fun.

Back to the summer. It is also the summer of Cricket. I’m giving it a capital letter, I don’t care. Whilst I endured all those Scot’s College schoolboy cricket Saturday’s, just waiting for my darling boy to finish fielding so we could all go for a well deserved surf, I didn’t realise how entertaining cricket could be. God love those little darlings, Michael Clarke and David Warner they were not. Lough Park Double Bay was charming, but no WACA, no SCG.

I am beginning to understand the nuance, the subtleties and the precision of a five day test. I admit that I was initially bowled over by the intensity of 20/20. I love wacking the ball as you know, so could appreciate the big hits of said 20/20 play. But now Dear hearts, we have David Warner bringing the two together. And as long as he doesn’t speak, he is a joy to watch. Michael Clarke of course, can do whatever he pleases. Please.

I am a hungry student as you know, so the Libertine must endure my questions. I love manners and gentlemen as you also know. The tradition of cricket provides form, style (except for those Big Bash uniforms) and etiquette. The baggy green is adorable. Mr Cricket is adorable, whereas the less said about the aberration that is Shane Warne since becoming Mrs Liz Hurley, the better.

So here you have a snapshot of summer in the far far north. Afternoons playing with the beach cricket set on the lawn of the Cottage with that beautiful mauve puppy fielding, flowers lying back languidly post coital letting the afternoon showers bathe them.

Enjoy perfection.

With love
Miss Mich

Illusion is the first of all pleasures

Dear hearts,

Energy. Inestimable. Without it we are nothing.

Interaction. Also inestimable. Without it we are nothing.

Put the two together and Bang! …Throw language into the mix and Big Bang!

Aside from the Carbon Tax debate, which I am not prepared to have here, short of saying I believe it is ultimately the Emperors New Clothes, energy is what it is all about. I just love it. The interaction of all that beautiful energy makes Miss Mich want to know more about quantum mechanics and particle physics. I just love a good oscillating proton, electron, neutron et al. I’m jumping on the String Theory and Superstring Theory bandwagons, hitching my wagons to the possibility of both being contenders for the Theory of Everything. (Don’t you love a sweeping statement kind of title).

Richard Feynmen had me at “quantum mechanics deals with nature as she is – absurd”. Adorable nes pas?

I love the definition of a string as a one dimensional filament of energy. We may not be one dimensional Dear hearts, but essentially, are we not filaments of energy oscillating in the universe looking for a like minded filament to bump into. I like to think of fermions as the girls and bosons as the boys. We fermions spinning in front of those forceful bosuns, just trying to impress…swishing our skirts and sending those bosons crazy. Quantum field theory starts to get a bit tricky from here on in so enough of my Big Bang segue ways. I’m really more Penny than Sheldon in this regard. Having said that I completely empathise with most of Sheldon’s opinions and think he makes tremendous sense. And that Soft Kitty lullaby is a cracker.

A little energy, a little interaction and now to language. It is our evolutionary trump card. Can you imagine trying to explain quantum field theory with grunts and gestures? It is all well and good to have an opposable thumb, but without language how is one to explain the intricacies of feeling blue, the nuance of a carefully constructed sonnet or describe what jelly feels like sliding down….hmmm, I’m afraid words escape me here Dear hearts.

Jelly aside, I just love words. Without them I would not have you right here, right now, hanging on my every…

I think adjectives are my favourite words. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?..let me use these words to tell you how. Thou art more lovely and more temperate. And verbs. Love the doing words, just love doing it…

Then there is the derivation and evolution of words. In the same way as tracing back through time the mysteries and the origin of the universe, etymology takes us on a journey to discover the history, origin and changes in form and meaning of our beautiful, complex language. Tracing the transmission from one language to another, identifying it’s cognates in other languages. But you know all this Dear hearts.

Language and words are the ultimate tools to have packed in your little swag. Words can be used for great good and also at times when one must cut with the proverbial verbal knife. Having said that, in the opinion of Miss Mich and most like minded folk, there is no place for sarcasm and cheap shots. No one has respect for such common insults such as these. Keep your wits about you and use your wit. One may be caustic but never toxic. One may thrust and parry with verve, élan and erudition. As we have spoken about in a previous tete et tete, a good accent also helps. Nothing like keeping your ing in place when one needs a little “fucking” emphasis to keep the debate on point. And if possible, throw in the odd Oscar Wilde quote. I will leave you with one of my favourites.

“You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties”

If that doesn’t do the trick,

“Always forgive your enemies, nothing annoys them so much”

Enjoy erudition.

With forgiveness
Miss Mich

2011 Last Supper

Dear hearts,

…And the souls of human beings, which will burst out of any box they are put inside. Patrick White.

The end of another year. Time for more of the aforementioned reflection of my last, rather particular tete et tete.

That little message to someone particular aside, we look back on 2011 and look for our defining moments. For isn’t that what our lives are punctuated by?... if we are lucky that is.

As Miss Mich grows older and hopefully wiser, it is the difference we can make that drives her to create defining moments. To make every day activities count. It is the little things that add up to enrich our lives and the lives of those around us.

People always talk about not taking things for granted, but we still do. By nature we are just a little lazy and find it easy to become accustomed to things and people to the point where they no longer stand out to us. Let’s make the effort in 2012 to continue to appreciate that which is before us.

The Baby and I shared a new year’s dinner and a pre dawn trip to the airport. Good Mother that I am I was more than happy to share our last meal of the year and reflect on our year that was. She of the working class woman had a stellar year and is the favoured darling of those formidable women for whom she works. The Matriarch of said engineering empire made it very clear to the proudest mother of all that there were big plans in store for Miss Mich’s youngest and treasured child. This was also the year that same youngest chicken left the comfort of the nest here in the Cottage to create her own little nest of love with that other big baby with whom we have all fallen in love. They are so adorable together I just want to squeeze them till they pop. Or perhaps just cook for them until they pop. Either way the little Italian woman inside of Miss Mich will be very happy.

As for Miss Mich she is on the path of legal enlightenment and the joys of academia. There is still the unfortunate matter of working to pay for the joy of living in the Cottage and books and seeds for the garden that the Libertine has made so productive and abundant.

And then there is the Libertine. Well, yes. Oh yes. So inventive. So creative. So naughty and soo nice. Just like Miss Mich. What a perfect fit. You know what aside, he is a very sweet and good soul. Like Forrest Gump, that is all I have to say about that. Oh, but how I could say more…

The other two Bright Young Things are forging their own paths with the Boy signed off on his trade and the Songbird back on track to smash it for next semester. More music and more love from all to all with those two darlings. And all three just love the Libertine.

Then there is that mauve puppy. What a character. A jealous Bitch (thinks she is the consort of the Libertine) and loyal to a fault. Too too funny and the favoured child of the family. There is a certain black and white general, who, had he been intact, could have been in with a chance. Oh well…such is unrequited love.

Along with Miss Mellie and dear Reesa, our most loved and favourite house guests, the year has been a happy one. Miss Mich’s legal eagle is her constant with whom she could not be without. And one must mention those silly girls that make golf the best game ever, along with Miss Mich’s darling Sydney stalwarts, Miss Christine, the McAuley girls and the Scots girls. Miss Mich has much to be grateful for.

The Baby and I placed our scrolls under the Buddha’s arm, lit a candle and gave thanks.

The year will reveal itself whether by reflection or by bursting out of its box, there is no escaping what has gone before. We will be judged by our peers, our children, ourselves and ultimately by you know who. It may take hindsight and the time that hindsight involves, whatever, let us hope that whether we reflect now or in the future, we can say we had defining moments.

And that they were good.

Enjoy reflection.

With love
Miss Mich

Mirror, Mirror.

Dear hearts,

It has been too long, but Miss Mich has been busy. Learning how to learn. Being a good student and redefining the way I think. It has been a fabulous semester and only excites my appetite for more. But then again, that is Miss Mish….once I have the taste for something,…more please.

Now is the time for reflection. The year has all but come to its conclusion. We have the opportunity to assess our performance, take stock of our behaviour and examine the outcomes as a result.

The heart is a deep and often dark place, particularly where the truth of ourselves lies. It is here that we often seal those boxes that we designate for the top shelf of the emotional cupboard. Along with those boxes big and small, the too hard to face basket sits at the very back of said cupboard. In the dark where one can pretend it does not exist. One can close the door and even turn out the light, but it remains.

Some of you create elaborate fictions to live within that you wrap tightly around you and around those over whom you have undue influence. With a religious fervour and the determination of the zealot, you perpetuate the fiction until the cupboard could not be opened even with the key. You keep the light out and banish from the house any truth, any integrity.

But this becomes your burden. Your albatross. Your cross to bear. You are Dorian Grey, being eaten from the inside out. I don’t really care for you. It is the innocents who trust and accept that which, if truth be told, they question. Sadly such it is, to use a favourite word of yours, the toxic and twisted truth that you offer, along with bitter greens to those who should be exempt from manipulation and coercion. It is these unfortunate darlings for whom I feel sadness.

You may read this and say Miss Mich is on a bit of a tangent, a bit of a high horse. And whilst Miss Mich acknowledges that some things do happen and there is nothing you can do, what you can do, indeed what you must do, is protect those who deserve our protection. And not cross lines into places where cruelty has no business to be.

Miss Mich wears a ring with the inscription “Il aura fallu toute l’intelligence du Coeur pour distinguer le bien du mal” – Trust in the intelligence of the heart to distinguish between good and bad. It is optimistic, I admit, and in the opinion of Miss Mich’s legal eagle, a contradiction. However, whilst the heart is all emotion and the ability to distinguish may be considered a logical process, the heart still knows.

It is how we interpret what our heart truly knows. Our heart can only put that truth on the mirrored table. It is up to us to determine how we interpret what it is showing us. To examine all the angles. All the little fissures and clefts, where truth can slip into a fold and appear lost or hidden. So examine closely and pay attention.

Be brave, Dear hearts, because it is only by taking a deep breath and looking, really looking into the heart of the matter that you will find the truth. What you do after that really depends on how evolved one is. And how honestly one truly loves.

Consider.

With heartfelt love
Miss Mich

This will just take a minute...

Dear hearts,

Time has become the marker of all markers for Miss Mich. Never before has a minute or an hour taken on so much weight and import.

Quick!…we don’t have a minute to spare…

It seems I may have been marking time all this time. Until now.

I don’t know, are the planets aligning? Are all my ducks in a row? Am I juggling those balls so that now they fall into place?

Whatever it is, it seems I am coming of a certain age. And no, not the big 50. Not that I ascribe to chronological age. Just ask Miss Christine…she of the younger lover. Much younger. And he a lucky man, let me tell you. It is true he knows it..

Younger men aside. And yes the Libertine may be a little younger than Miss Mich. And sooo lovely. But I digress.

Time. Of the essence and of the moment. There is nothing like squeezing in a little 40 hours to one’s workload. Admittedly, the reduction of pen selling hours to 20 is a welcome concession, but still there remains the maintenance of one’self. The walking of the puppy. The collecting of shells and the sharing with you, Dear hearts, of all thoughts entertaining. Not to mention mothering the Bright Young Things, reading to elevate one’s consciousness, a little socialising to bring balance into a serious world and last but never least…you know what with you know who…

So far, so good. As one of Miss Mich’s best ever friends has said. It is a matter of fitness. Study fitness. At first, it hurts. To think more deeply. To understand. Truly understand. And to recall. And we haven’t even touched on creative thinking.

Goodness me! So much to do and so little time.

But things are slowly falling into place. I was, and in many ways, still am, overwhelmed by how much I am yet to learn. We are speaking of rules and principles and philosophies and methodologies. I won’t bore you to death. Suffice to say that these fundamentals are embedding. Miss Mich is absorbing and looking forward, so much, to applying her own, very special, creative interpretation to a world that on the surface, may appear to be stuffy and without flexibility, but upon Miss Mich’s own, tentative interaction with, has the potential for much debate, interpretation and good.

Enough!

Time to study, to reflect and to learn, learn, learn!


Enjoy Tuesday.

With love
Miss Mich

What would Henry Higgins think?

Dear hearts,

I love a good word. We all know that. But have I told you how much I love a good accent?

Oh, I do. I do.

Just ask the Bright Young Things. As you know, we lived in London. Central London. Eaton Place actually. Yes. SW1.Talk about a covetable postcode. Talk about covetable neighbours. Google Earth if you don’t believe me. Joan Collins lived down the road and Maggie Thatcher in the next square. We used to buy our sausages together at the Chatsworth Farm Store in Elizabeth St. That is of course, once you excused yourself past those big bodyguards who stood on point at the front door (to make sure noone got away with Dennis’ pork porkers).
I would chuckle to myself as she rifled through her purse for change. The biggest Queen like sparkly brooch on her suit, her hair like a helmet and absolute determination in her eyes to get the last of those porcine packages.

Personally, I’m not a huge fan of the sausage…well…

Charles Saatchi and Nigella lived at the back of us in Eaton Square. I used to wonder if they slept in that unmade bed of Tracy Emin’s. But I doubt it. Nigella would not stand for the smell of another woman I’m sure. The cup cake sweetness of her bits would demand a set of fresh sheets every day.

Which reminds me of the story I read about Jacquie Onassis. According to this snippet, Jacquie was partial to a little nap in the afternoon. Aren’t we all Dear hearts. One of my favourite things to do when I am left with a little time, is to hop under the covers, have a Baby o and drift off for a half an hour or so.

But I digress. Back to Jacq. In her bedroom on Park Avenue, she had the absolute luxury of fresh linen on the bed for her afternoon snooze and then fresh linen again at night. That my friends, is when you know you are rich.

What I love about Nigella and Maggie and Jacquie is of course their accents. Nigella with her lovely creamy sweet uppercrust nuance. Maggie with her imperious, I have transitioned from the Grocer’s daughter and don’t you challenge me haughtiness. I think I preferred the Kennedy accent to the Bouvier accent, although both had a laconic sense of entitlement to them.

Which brings me to my own. I suppose I should explain its rather circuitous journey. It started on the north shore. Mosman don’t you know. My Mother and Father good lower north shore kids, but when we moved to the western suburbs my poor mother had to change her accent just to fit in. Just to survive. She had to pack away her little boucle suits and sparkly brooch’s and wear Bermuda shorts and keds. I was a little confused as you can imagine. My Grandfather with his orator’s voice, my Grandmother with her penchant for opera and my Dad with his musical ear.

I ran away from the western suburbs just as fast as I could. In the opposite direction, straight to the eastern suburbs. All those thick and rolling Eastern European accents, the Jewish shrug in a grunt and those Vaucluse lilts made for a cacophony of internation, annunciation and cadence.

And then Dear hearts, we moved to London. My goodness. After nearly three years I had quite the phony English accent, as the Bright Young Things like to call it. Noone can do an upper class English lope like me. Think Eddie and Pats with a touch of Jonathan Ross. Throw in a little Kristen Scott-Thomas and some Keith Richards and I think you might have me. Not too try hard (like Maggie T God love her), not too starchy. I’m quite proud of it and will not be bowed.

Of course now we are in the far far north and I am sure it has evolved again. A little bend and perhaps a touch of twang. All quite charming, obvi. And all quite me.

I should tell you I am currently reading a book set in the South. The gracious and not so gracious southern states of the USA. You know I am reading aloud in my head and you know it’s Blanche who’s narrating. Too too enjoyable.

It will be interesting to see how that little sojourn affects this accent that has meandered around the world.

Enjoy mon ami.

Amore
Madame Mich x

I have become accustomed to your face

Dear Hearts,

I have a secret. To be honest, it’s not really a secret. I think you know me well enough to probably have figured it out by now.

It’s a part of who I am and a part of where I have come from. I could blame those who made me, but why? I have learnt to live with it and in many ways, am comforted by it…the consistency of it. The constancy of it.

Once I recognised it, it became not my burden, my albatross, but my friend.

One word Dear hearts,

Binge
Lots of
Multiples
Plenty
Too much
Never too much

Ok that may be more than one word, but you see my point nest pas?

I’m sitting here hoovering my way through an entire small bucket of semi dried tomatoes, at their peak may I say. A generous block of Australian full cream fetta cheese and a somewhat cheeky Sav Blanc courtesy of a certain training institution who thanked me for my attention.

This has been a constant dining companion to me for the better part of I can’t remember how many years. And I don’t care to. Because it is the perfect light dinner partner. Tasty, salty and fruity. With a trio like that who needs a fourth?

Which brings me to my attention. If you have it, you seriously have it. 110%. Maybe 200010% (is that like a gazillion %??) If I’m into you, then I’m in to you. Speak and you have me. Completely. Nothing else exists.

If I like it, I like it. I can never leave Cairns now, unless the Mungalli Biodynamic Dairy comes with me. I would have to pack up those sweet Jersey cows, pack their not so little udders in my suitcase and hit the road. But then I would have to make room for those super sweet Mareeba tomato vines. Drape their heavy, fruit laden branches around said Jersey necks to make sure I had the best, freshest tomatoes this side of anywhere.

And would there be room for that secret beach in my suitcase? It must be 3kms long. Where would I fit the shells and the sticks and that brown and white dog that likes noone but us?

Hmmm, I haven’t mentioned the moon and the far far north sky yet have I? That’s going to take some packing. I would need to squeeze moon trails from full moons over Ellis Beach and the Southern Cross could not be folded I imagine. Not without a crease…

I haven’t mentioned a certain banana bread and coffee from a certain near Esplanade café? Well, Kelly may be little but that suitcase is getting full. Could I fit David’s mother in as well so that the banana bread was never ending?

I may need to abandon the little brown cardboard suitcase I had as a five year old. It was full of treasures as special as these mentioned here. My favourite matchbox cars, wax ballerina candles from my 5th birthday. The one where my mother sang to me in a tent in Lightening Ridge. Those very same and very beautiful candles stuck in a store bought loaf cake, sadly so beneath them. My mother singing through her tears because my father didn’t come home to celebrate my blowing out of those most beautiful candles. I jiggled on my bottom, just wanting my mother to stop singing, not stop crying, because I wanted to save those lovely ballerina heads from melting away. I wanted to keep them perfect, intact. So I could have them forever. And ever. I carried those stumps around in my little brown suitcase for years, the wax tutu's chipping away, some of the heads lopped off.(do you see where it comes from?)

I sat on the verandah of my grandparents enormous Victorian house on the hill overlooking Balmoral Beach and the harbour, ignoring the pretty little boats, too absorbed in sorting methodically, precisely, over and over again, the buttons my seamstress grandmother collected as a result of her impeccable needlework. It was all I ever wanted to do. Perhaps the shells I am compelled to collect now are the bright little buttons of then.

And I haven’t even mentioned you know who. Perhaps I shouldn’t. I had become accustomed to his face on my pillow. And elsewhere. My suitcase is only so big. And my will only so great.

But to be honest, Dear hearts, as much as we would like to squeeze and squash these things into our suitcase, the suitcase of the mind is more than capacious. More than accommodating.

I still have those ballerina candles. I swear I do. Sadly I also still have my mothers tears, but I make sure they stay locked in the little brown suitcase at the top of the emotional cupboard, you know the one, where my sentimentality lies.

For everything else, I am here now. Enjoying all these things now. With a light touch, just like Miss Christine says…hold them lightly and they will always be yours.

Enjoy your treasures.

With love
Miss Mich