She had not gone blind.

Margot opened her eyes only to realise that she was wearing her Air Emirates inflight sleeping mask, which made her look like a groggy masked avenger in need of guidance.

She lay on her back looking inwards as she listened for the first sounds that would mingle to form the aural backdrop to yet another day in paradise.

The low thrum of the air conditioning programmed to turn off after she had taken her sleeping pills and kick in again half an hour before her alarm was set to go off.

Her breathing, slow and shallow.

The dip and pull of a paddle out on the lagoon as a kayak was propelled smoothly through the reassuring morning rituals of Mermaid Waters.

Barking dogs off the leash.

A dive’s splash back into a swimming pool.

Parakeets and crows.

Her thoughts on their merry circuit of memory and near present perfect.

Like pitch or tense, somehow inexplicable.

Far-fetched, but true.

Far flung from original states of departure and long overdue for an incentive to believe in an equitable power sharing scheme.

Out on the water, Mike plied his usual course up and back along the lagoon and canal complex that gave their locale its name.

Man-made, the overall effect was reminiscent of Miami, Florida, an extension of the coastal lifestyle drawn inland.

Mike was a self-made man so the association was a ‘you beaut’ pairing.

Meanwhile, Margot was reminded of home back in the US, when she was still a household name of daytime television soap opera fame.

Around the same time as Miami Vice was the banner carrier for cop shows and tourism. It also coincided with her decline and missed opportunities with other shows like Dallas.

Bad financial advice and a brush with Internal Revenue over share irregularities meant she had to leave all that behind. A convenient excuse as her star was on the wane, anyway.

A famous Aussie actor of the day who had broken through in the States had suggested she think about heading ‘down under’ and making a fresh start.

“Always plenty of room at the barbie, Margot”, he’d drawled out on a patio somewhere indistinguishable from yet another studio management launch where they had met under the auspices of the same US talent agency.

“Provided that doesn’t imply that you think I’m a shrimp”, she’d shot back to the rigged and rugged delight of her stablemate.

Thanks to him, she’d been introduced to her future husband (#3) who’d done some TV in Oz and was a celebrity in his own right.

Mike was a former Ironman; an ex-Coolangatta paddle board champion who’d hit the big time as a try hard tri-athlete who had turned his hand and smile (not to mention pecs and six-pack) to a breakfast cereal promotion to fuel a future nation of champions. TV advertisements and the most important meal of the day would never be the same again.

Neither would they.

Now in their sixties, Margot and Mike had been married for 15 years.

That was before they had officially retired and had been forced into permanent cohabitation.

No longer having the commitments to divert and distract them from each other, this proximity had taken its toll. The only thing for it had been an amicable separation that saw them still living under the same roof but at opposite ends of the connubial continuum.

As part of their long-range plans for a future together, they had gone into business together as a couple (always risky business) and opened a spa resort called Meridian Palms.

Margot occupied one end of the resort, while Mike had his quarters at the other.

A most accommodating arrangement.

Margot took care of the accounts and PR while Mike oversaw the janitorial duties and maintenance. He also had a sideline in vegetable wholesale and distribution to local and state based customers, including sports clubs and the defense forces.

He claimed it kept him sane, got him out of the resort and was an honest way to top up the coffers. (He was also an investor in and part-owner of the local surf club, in which Margot had made it a rule never to set foot outside of New Years’ celebrations, her aura of Tinsel Town mystery having taken years to cultivate, and which she sought to prolong beyond a mere reef and beef night out to forget.)

The community was a mix of inveterate ‘bread and buttered’ locals, retirees and tourists.

There was always an underlying division of ‘us’ and ‘them’, but any resentment at the interlopers was short lived once the turnover registered as undeniable profit.

The local core consisted of real-estate impresarios, development entrepreneurs and ex-footballers who seemed to have a talent for small business investment opportunities.

‘Schoolies’ was something else entirely.

********

Margot had waited for the consciousness stirring sounds to blur and then dissipate as a background accompaniment to her morning ritual.

Not an early riser by habit, she had tried to get into more of a routine on her therapist’s advice to counterbalance the medication she was taking for general anxiety and insomnia, not to mention the specific PTSD that had crept up on her after she had quit the soaps circus.

Then there was stress management and relationship issues to contend with.

Mike was a constant reminder of that, but she had to admit she couldn’t really get by without him.

He in turn felt responsible for her and didn’t want to see her fall in a heap because she couldn’t cope.

It was a great lifestyle and he wouldn’t trade it for quids. Or for his wife in name for public consumption.

Breakfast was something Margot had to force herself to enjoy; to help put her in the right space for the day.

In this case out on the sun-drenched patio adjoining the spacious modern kitchen.

Mike was the ‘dawn raider’, as he liked to quip. You can take the champion out of the training schedules, but you can’t take the schedules out of the champion.

Usually up by if not before the proverbial crack, he would either go for a run, swim or paddle, or sometimes all three if he was feeling primed.

The arthritis had been taking its toll of late, so this morning it was just a swim and paddle.

His choice breakfast of champions was usually a protein shake before a workout, followed by muesli and fruit with soy milk, whole wheat toast with avocado and vegemite (poached eggs occasionally substituted for the avocado), washed down with a pot of black coffee. This usually kept him going until lunch, unless he skimped on the toast combo.

By the time he had finished his daily exercise Margot would be in place on the patio overlooking the canal.

Dressed in floral print house coat, crocs, floppy hat and dark glasses, she sat at the outside dining setting contemplating her calorie intake.

A strong pot of green tea with honey and lemon, paired with a couple of large carob rice cakes, and a couple of either apple or pineapple skewers.

This usually kept her going until morning tea at ‘elevenses’.

If the weather was unusually wet, she would sit just inside the big kitchen double doors. With the same outlook. Pensive but serene. The sleeping pills had by this time given over to the anti-depressants and mild sedative.

The cats would slink about her presence after being fed as the first gesture to mindfulness on her list.

Mike would generally return to join her by 9 o’clock, by which time he’d already been to his own quarters to change out of his speedos and have a shower.

This morning he reappeared wearing a faded Brisbane Broncos rugby jersey, cargo shorts and flip flops. His wrap-around shades sat perched on the peak of his Brisbane Heat ‘Big Bash’ cricket cap.

He busied himself in the kitchen before exchanging any pleasantries and prepared his second breakfast to take out on to the patio and join Margot.

How did you sleep?

Like clockwork.

Going to be a beautiful day.

Every day is beautiful in paradise.

Well, M, it is the height of summer. Let’s hope it lasts for the games.

Margot did not acknowledge this allusion to the future.

How was your paddle work?

Predictably predictable.

You don’t say…

I might get in a swim this arvo, provided I take care of business and a few repairs.

Be my guest…

Speaking of which, will the new staff be arriving in time before we reach the seasonal crunch? We can’t afford to be overbooked like last time. We were lucky we could call in a few favors.

You worry too much.

Well, the lead up to April will be telling and we need to make sure this experiment will pay off.

The extra staff will be in place. You just need to make sure your contacts with the committee and board are, well, above board.

Beyond reproach, Margo, beyond reproach. The profile for this whole thing is just too big for any slip ups. The world will be on our doorstep and the nation’s reputation cannot be compromised.

Well, I suppose the increased international profile will be a boon.

You said it. Bookings are strong, I take it?

We are solid up to and including the games.

Par for the course, M, par for the course. This Airbnb seems to be the way to go.

Mike poured the last of his coffee and leaned back in his chair.

Margot eyed his remaining piece of whole wheat toast. Her dark sun glasses were not simply protection for her sensitive vision.

After much consideration and debate, the resort was now promoted on Airb&b to coincide with the influx of tourists for the Commonwealth Games and as it turned out athletes from nations wanting a singularly different accommodation experience distinct from the run-of-the-mill corporate estate.

Thanks to the games committee and Queensland tourism following through on promises made to Mike in his role as sports ambassador, Meridian Palms had been able to secure the contract to cater for the team representing Saint Helena.

Not exactly your big fish of the international sporting scene, but an undeniable catch.

With only 12 athletes and equivalent support staff. The resort would have no trouble putting them up. The extra staff were only for the short term to cover the lead up to and including the fortnight of competition. For the time being, anyway.

The Palms, as it was sometimes referred to by locals, had been a hotel and was converted to its latter-day form in the late 90s.At around the same time the shift and drift had already set in for the couple.

The process of the conversion from their former selves took a little while longer than the renovation, but the changes were just as visible – to them if not anyone else.

They still carried themselves with a glimmer of the former public persona they had made famous.

Yet, they saw through each other, even in the glare of the Queensland sun.

Shades or none.

I must admit that when I first heard mention of the country’s team, I thought they meant a volcano.

Mike could not help but laugh at Margo’s lax geography.

Nice try, though. That’s Mount St. Helens.

A litany of innuendo raced through Mike’s pumped mind, a la Austen Tayshus’ early 80s hit Australiana.

Margot did not respond, but stared out over Mike’s shoulder at a heron gliding low over the sparkling waters.

Mike assumed he was getting the silent treatment for this correction, instead of Margot simply not being bothered to comment.

He sought to make amends for any unintentional slight.

Saint Helena’s not that far off the mark. Has a nicer ring to it too.

Margot drifted back to the present moment.

And what do you suppose they play?

Play?

The sports they play.

Well, I’m told they only compete in three: archery, canoeing and wrestling. And they tell me that they’ve never won a bloody medal.

So, were hosting the great under achievers.

I’d sooner call them underdogs.

A bit out of our league, then.

Please don’t start Margo.

I don’t suppose anyone expected us to retain our mantle.

Fame is fickle, Margo. You know that.

At least people still recognize you as the man of steel.

Mike groaned in sympathy.

Err, that’s Ironman.

Super.

OK, OK. I get the drift. Suppose I should get a move on and head over to the warehouse and check on things. Couple of big orders this week.

Mike hauled himself up and collected his breakfast tray to take inside.

Try not to get too much sun.

Margot reappraised his concern.

You’re the one who has to watch his moles.

Melanoma’s no joke.

Did I say it was? I have to pester you to get checked. And as for your…

I know, I know. I have the appointment booked for Doctor Gelding.

That does not disappoint me, Mike.

Seriously, it’s going to be scorcher.

I plan to retreat into the cool of the office and see that affairs are in order. Nothing like paperwork to settle the nerves. At least I can still put on a voice when making calls. By the way, we have a new massage therapist in case you didn’t notice. Pretty young thing…

Mike did not deign to acknowledge the comment, as snide as it could be interpreted.

I suppose Greig will be in town soon. That golf tournament is next week.

Par for the course, as you would say…

Alrighty, then. Suppose I should get a move on. Can I take your tray?

Margo looked askance at the remains of her breakfast.

Thank you, but I’m not quite done.

Mike ignored the irony in the statement and took himself inside.

Over his shoulder and out of the corner of his mouth he said,

Take care and don’t overdo it.

Margo winced and reopened her eyes.

********

The prospect of having a team representing Saint Helena staying with them buoyed Mike immensely. As obscure as it sounded, he had developed an admiration for the figure of Napoleon. He had been touted as an inspirational figurehead at a motivational convention Mike had attended and the historical import had rubbed off on him. Biographies and sports histories were about the only things he read. For a supposedly little man, Napoleon achieved greatness and Mike saw parallels in aiming high for sporting glory. Pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, even if this failed to raise you literally head and shoulders above competitors. Depending on your chosen field of endeavor, having a lower center of gravity could be an advantage.

Mike had to laugh at the fact that one of his favorite ABBA songs was Waterloo.

My, my, at Waterloo Napoleon did surrender, Oh yeah, and I have met my destiny in quite a similar way, The history book on the shelf Is always repeating itself, 
Waterloo - I was defeated, you won the war, Waterloo - Promise to love you for ever more, Waterloo - Couldn't escape if I wanted to, Waterloo - Knowing my fate is to be with you, Waterloo - Finally facing my Waterloo…

One thing had led to another, and he eventually found himself falling in with a bunch of historical recreationists who met in the hinterlands every six months for their equivalent of cosplay events.

Then there was the weird connection between revolutionary France and the Antipodes that saw artefacts, flora and fauna transported back to Chateau de Malmaison on a veritable ark for display and distraction in the residence and gardens. It would seem Napoleon had a thing for the great southern land and had even tried to get a commission on board an expedition bound for the south seas when he was a 16-year-old student and this later transmogrified into catering to his wife’s whims and fancies, which even included several First Consul kangaroos.

Mike had even played the part of the little Emperor himself.

So much for his Josephine.

His latest foray into dressing up was something that he was paradoxically more abashed about revealing to his business partner than his exploits upon the imaginary battlefields.

Lest she think he was hogging the limelight.

He intended to reveal all after the fact.

Too late to ridicule then. Although, Margot still found him to cut quite a figure in his swimming costume (She hated the term ‘budgie smugglers’.) Not that she would have let on.

Mike was one of many volunteers who were to don the costume of the official games’ mascot – Borobi, the surfing koala.

Marsupial fascination reigned supreme.

After some spirited overtures to the committee, Mike had landed himself the big gig for the opening ceremony. He’d already sported the blue oversized marsupial head for some charity events and loved the reaction he got, especially from the kids. His own kids from a previous marriage would never believe it was him.

Whoever thought he’d end up back on a board, representing his country?

A pity that Livvie’s Koala Blue had gone down the gurgler, or it would have been the perfect cross promotion.

Now all he had to do was prepare to conquer his vertigo. A highlight of the opening ceremony was for him to sweep in from on high riding his surfboard, suspended by a series of cables rigged up above Carrara Stadium.

The winch would be a cinch, or so he kept telling himself.

That was the most confronting part about the training. He didn’t mind sweating buckets and the fact that his vision was limited inside the big head. This helped lessen the panoramic prospect beneath him.

If the Queen could do it parachuting from a helicopter at the Olympics, then so could he.

Margot’s societal obligations next involved her as a judge for a fashion pageant at Jupiter’s Casino. Mike resisted being so foolhardy as to make any references to a gaseous giant. He learned his lessons well, or so he thought.

She was intent on still making appearances on the social circuit, even if it did tend to reinforce that her star had faded in comparison to the other celebrity starlets created like the brides of the monster that was reality TV.

One of her favorite outings was the Spring Racing Carnival in the lead up to the Melbourne Cup. It got her out of Queensland and left Mike to his own devices for the duration. She had friends in Melbourne and they always got together, especially for Oaks Day and functions at the Lyceum Club, of which she was an honorary member. Philanthropy paid off, it would seem.

Mike didn’t mind a flutter, but, apart from cooperating to keep Meridian Palms afloat, this was just about the only distraction where their mutual interests continued to converge.

They were both regulars at the casino, but where Margot was there for fashion, Mike was there to gamble and investigate back-channels (if that wasn’t one and the same thing).

It was all about contacts, networking, back scratching and greasing palms.

Forget LinkedIn or any of that social media stuff.

For Mike it was the person that counted. And he felt as though he could return the favor.

He’d known for a while that football was more than a game and with the expansion of the AFL to Queensland, originally with the Brisbane Bears in the 80s, the powerhouse that was the Lions and now the Gold Coast Suns, it was open slather for conflation opportunities.

Corruption of one form or another had always been rife in the Sunshine State, with the tried and true art of gerrymandering rivalling philanthropy for kickbacks.

What a racket. And now even the Chinese seemed to be in on the act.

Thanks to the would-be nomination of the Suns as the Chinese team in the league and their infiltration of the lucrative market over there for promotional rights and touted expansion on and off the sporting field, the time was right for a deal ‘made under heaven.’ Capitalism with Chinese characteristics sure did the trick. A real investment in faith as a commodity of its own.

Mike had nous and Margot had acumen (her words).

Harnessed as one, they were a force to be second to none to.

Margot’s track record back home did not initially translate into confidence in the scheme, but what Mike thought she lacked in financial smarts (his word) she made up for in panache and poise. Mike had the local knowledge and connections, not to mention status as an all-round good bloke and true blue Aussie legend. Originally, VIP guests had come to stay at the spa for a five-star package deal (usually the Chinese business men with their families) and who were invited to finance the tourism opportunities created by the names of their hosts’ personal stories of glamour and grit.

They had even hired a local consultant go-between called Zeng.

Meridian Palms retained the services of traditional Chinese massage and acupuncture therapists, a chef and waiting staff, and hostesses for official banquets and special functions catering to clients whose word of mouth was invaluable.

Lured by the prospect of buying into an Australia dream, the party elite had been cultivated by various trade delegations and representations that real estate and education only gave the merest suggestion of for appearances’ sake.

Then there were the mining and shipping interests, the entire port of Darwin, and luxury goods like wine, dairy produce and Ugg boots for Australia to divest.

‘Spoils all round, sport’, seemed to be the operating credo.

Now they were paused for the next big thing. A games influx of interest, so to speak, in the accommodation and hospitality stakes.

Money laundering had seemed like a very Chinese solution.

Grateful for the advice, Margot and Mike determined to buy into such a mutually rewarding arrangement. It just seemed like the done thing.

Considering Mike’s fondness for costumes and impersonating larger than life animals, ‘smurfing’ was a most apt tag for what modus operandi was put in motion.

Under the radar. Small batch deposits. Keep the turnover a-flowing.

All the way down the Yangtze River from Shanghai.

It was easy to turn a blind eye to the origins of the money, so long as it kept investors happy. Drug money? Who knew? Most probably.

Party donations? Political correctness gone mad.

Declare and be square. Meridian Palms provided a service to both sides of the ideological fence. And Aussie rules of engagement. A taciturn return.

With the expected windfall from the Airbnb sideline to create a further smokescreen on activities, Meridian Palms was a surefire success story with prospects offshore, beyond the realms of conscience.

********

She had not gone mad.

At first, she thought perhaps her self-medication had finally gone too far.

Roused by a clamor from below that drowned out the Currawong morning song, Margot removed her sleeping mask and assessed the dim light.

She then addressed herself in her new mindful mantra of self-affirmation:

I am a magnet of opportunity and will prosper doing only what I love.

Once tended to, the spiritual spirulina activated her zest, and Zen-like she seemed to elevate from her prone position to find herself seamlessly gowned and aglow without having set foot in the en suite.

Powerless to its pull, Margot acknowledged her faltering pelvic floor muscles and floated with self-love over to the beautician parlor grade bathroom.

No sooner had she attended to her organic needs and supped the nectar from her reflection in the dressing room inspired makeup mirror, Margot popped the necessary pills with a swig of Akvavit (Mike had his Akta-Vite) and sought to greet the day.

What is that infernal racket?

With Gucci sunglasses in place, the lady of Meridian Palms activated the electric drapes and they slowly drew themselves apart to invite the day into the boudoir.

The glare struck at her but she stood her ground and stared down the sun.

The ruckus from below sounded like a funfair on ecstasy minus any fireworks or rave effects, including the music. What she could not dispel was the constant sound of a steady beat being pounded out like some roadworks machinery.

Margot opened the sliding door, stepped out on to the balcony and moved towards the railing.

The spectacle that awaited her was an unmitigated farce.

To clarify her certainty as to its perceptible veracity, the only thing for it was to slide the sunglasses down from the bridge of her nose so they rested on its chiseled tip.

The scene that played out before her was in stark contrast to her dreams, since she did not dream any more. Or so she thought. Anyway, she could never remember if she did.

It appeared that the hammering was produced by a troupe of Chinese drummers lined up in formation on the foreshore decking, replete in traditional garish costumes that glittered in the nauseating morning light.

She half expected to see a Chinese dragon, and refused to rule this out.

Out on the waterway of the canals was a flotilla of some sort that had come at speed from the direction of the waterfront and was propelling itself towards a makeshift finish line. It was a dragon boat race. This mythical reference could not be ignored after all. At least the kitchen would not have to pacify the human infused contortions of such a beast with offerings of fruit and vegetables meant for the guests.

What next? Acrobats?

Margot was reminded of the waterskiing displays she had seen as a teenager when she was also dreaming of a part in one of the beach party films of the day as a blonde Annette Funicello. Beach Blanket Bingo, anyone?

So much for her Frankie Avalon.

Where was Mike in all this?

She scanned the throng, a mix of guests, neighbors and unidentified extras.

Then she spotted him. He was standing out on a pontoon in the middle of the canal at the finish line wearing his old surf lifesaving uniform and holding a boxing kangaroo flag. The lifesaving gear was an inspired touch – the standout colours of red and yellow were spot on to appease the Chinese contingent. She had to hand it to him. Good luck all round.

The flag was a leftover of former sporting glory days and was to signify the end of the race. Mike held it above his head and waved the boats over the line.

He was obviously favoring his bad shoulder or else she would have expected him to be out on the water.

Margot took another look at the crowd and realized that there was a section roped off and in prime position to take advantage of the display.

This VIP seating (deck chairs, tables and shade umbrellas arranged on fake turf behind a cordon of potted palms) consisted of the current Shanghai delegation of investors and the members of the Saint Helena Commonwealth Games team.

A Maoist and Napoleonic consolidation scheme in temporary reprieve Down Under; if ever there was such an implausible proposition to be had, it was irrefutably right before Margot’s squinting eyes. Interests were interests, after all.

The translators were being kept busy on both sides and security kept a close watch, on what, she could not discern behind their own dark glasses.

Margot considered her options in the face of her unexpectedly late awakening.

It was after nine – inexcusable considering the present tense state of affairs.

She must do her duty and slip into character as the resident social director and moderator.

Before she had time to flit through her mental list of unparalleled apparel for the occasion (forgetting that she had already laid it out in her dressing room the night before), her attention was grabbed by what next unfolded.

The dragon boats had pulled in to the jetty and the crews were met with generous applause for the bystanders.

Why didn’t they wake me? They had strict instructions. You can’t get decent help any more.

She had noticed that staff had assembled to one side to take in the morning’s diversions after breakfast.

She closed her eyes behind the repositioned sunglasses and breathed.

Let it go, let it go…

I am remarkable and will exceed every expectation, for my greatest passions will bring my greatest rewards.

Recalibrated, her equanimity back in check, Margot opened her eyes and tried hard to suppress the temptation to disbelieve them.

Two teams had assembled below on the tennis court, the net for which had been removed to allow one unbroken line almost from baseline to baseline.

At least the drumming had stopped.

Mike was organizing the arrangement of the lineup – two teams to compete in a tug-of-war competition.

What next?

Mike had his headset on and hooked up to the PA system.

Ladies and gentlemen. What a wonderful morning to be here on the beautiful Gold Coast. (Enthusiastic applause.)

Congratulations to the dragon boat team from ICBC – the future of banking in Australasia.

(Mild applause.)

Before we break this morning for refreshments, we will be treated to a test of strength in the tradition of the elite athletes we are honored to host for these Commonwealth Games of 2018.

(Wild applause.)

And not forgetting, we have arranged two tours that will depart before lunch. For those of you interested in either whale watching or scuba diving, it’s not too late to put your names down on the list. (Mike cleared his throat and motioned with his visored forehead to his trusted offsider Noel who was stationed at a sign-in table.)

Without further ado, may I present to you the contestants for this pitted struggle - I prefer cocktail olives with pimento, myself. (Nonplussed murmuring and muted laughter.)

A single drummer let rip with a slow building roll, followed by an emphatic cymbal crash.

I give you the volunteer army of associated mascots from sporting codes around this fair island home of ours.

(Enthusiastic applause, whistles, cries of joy.)

Up against the part-time weekend warriors of the accurate dress-code, consummate cosplay artists, the historical recreationist representatives of Queensland!

(Sound of swords beating against shields and bad Orc impersonations.)

Mike’s voice was replaced on the PA by the theme to The Pirates of the Caribbean movie franchise.

From out of the tennis pavilion appeared two lines of uniquely attired contenders.

They marched in step to take up their positions either side of Mike who occupied centre court. At his feet was an enormous length of rope with a bright red and yellow ribbon tied at its middle.

The two teams spread out and took up their positions along the length of rope.

Like lambs to the slaughter…

Margot thought that at least having some NRL players in disguise might even up the odds in favor of the mascots.

Still, the history buffs did look a little worse for wear after their stoush and after-party the day before.

Mike had dearly wanted to don his Borobi outfit for the occasion, but this would have invited more trouble than it was worth. Margot would find out in due course.

He settled himself, asked contestants to get ready, get set and fired the starting pistol he raised above his head.

At the sound of the discharged cap (Mike had considered using a bullwhip, but with his preferred arm out of action he’d reconsidered this option as too fraught with potential mishap), Margot turned on her heels and disappeared back into her quarters…

********

Mike had been due back in hospital for another procedure on his troublesome shoulder immediately following the games, but he hadn’t expected to find himself the centre of medical attention quite so early.

Not that Margot was disinclined towards the newfound regard.

She did not mind it one bit. It was only the Commonwealth Games after all, and surely wouldn’t attract any untoward scrutiny from the IRS after all these years.

The games had gone ahead in the true spirit of a liberal democracy, unafraid of threats or intimidation.

Nothing like a false start to keep everyone on their toes.

Despite the interruption to proceedings during the opening ceremony, life went on at its usual torpid sub-tropical pace.

The Royal Commission was scheduled to begin its inquiry into the foiled (or some would say botched) attack and the surrounding security concerns regarding the breaches the led up to the April 4 act of ‘barbarous aggression against the very foundations and principles of freedom.’

Such was the language used by elected officials and policing authorities, and amplified in the only-too-happy to accommodate in the aftermath, compliant and aggrieved media.

On our behalf and at our behest, as only we’d come to expect.

A true reflection upon our society and way of life.

September and the legal investigation could not come soon enough.

Mike had to wait a little until he could resume his usual routine.

Fortunately, there was a good deal he was able to attend to and monitor via his laptop and phone from his hospital bed and then while trussed up back at Meridian Palms. Besides, trusty offsider Noel and his brother Nick were able to take care of the day to day wholesale operations in his absence.

Margot was content to continue with the Airbnb affiliation to make the most of their reinvigorated status and prolong the experience of living the dream.

A real sustainable lifestyle she could previously only have imagined.

Fruit and vegetables were one thing, but…

On the advice of a girlfriend from the North Shore set of Sydney, both Margot and Mike decided to enlist the guidance of a PR / management firm, Gotchen & Goshen – We Keep You Guessing, to handle enquiries and avoid any intrusion of privacy.

A mate of Mikes from the club, Connor ‘Eveready’ Bunny, recommended an unimpeachable accountant in Brisbane, Troy Kong, who could help sort out any protracted issues of the sundry overlapping Chinese interests. Divestment would have to be steady and slow to avoid suspicion and keep all parties happy.

Recommendations were everything. The way of the good old-fashioned quid pro quo.

Not exactly a new beginning, but it felt like a clean slate of sorts.

Provided there were no loose ends.

It felt like Margot and Mike had each been at a loose end and in search of something, if not themselves or each other, ever since they had first thought they had found their respective calling in this life. It would always call for something more. Until they were introduced and then the fateful day when they discovered a paperback edition of poems by Leonard ‘Mr. Spock’ Nimoy, titled, We are all Children Searching for Love, in a local second hand bookshop in Currumbin.

What had gone wrong?

Fortuitously, it was a loose end of sorts that had saved the day on that eventful occasion in April.

Mercifully, history tells us that the premeditated act of terrorism did not go according to the grand plan.

It was to have made an undeniable statement that the remnants of the co-called Coalition of the Willing, especially those strands of the Commonwealth that had been implicated in the epoch defining war on terror, were inescapably doomed to failure.

What could not have been foreseen was the unmistakable intervention of providence in the guise of a cuddly, kid friendly promotional toy ploy.

Mike was all set for his entrance high above the stadium, set to ride the wave of patriotic fervor in support of the home team, and come in for a smooth landing on his custom-built surfboard. Borobi was going to ‘hang ten’ determined to deliver the goods like no other mascot ever had.

With little movement except for using his good arm to wave at the adoring crowd.

How premonitory that was. Surf or no surf…

The story that would preoccupy the media and the Royal Commission then unfolded. From the back of an outside broadcast van for one of the many news and sports channels covering the event, a lone ISIS operative launched a ground to air rocket from the shoulder mounted weapon somehow smuggled beyond the security perimeter. Its target was Borobi.

Everything in the lead up to the ceremony had gone without incident. All the preparations and rehearsals had been on track. Mike had even overcome his fear of heights.

Cue the influence of Murphy’s Law.

The overhead cable that Mike was suspended from suffered a malfunction at the precise moment the rocket was fired. He suddenly dropped sufficiently below the level of the scoped out bullseye to escape the trajectory of the projectile, which continued on its flight path to intercept a drone being used by Channel 7 to film overhead filler footage from outside the stadium. Suffice to say it ceased to exist.

In a flash Mike instinctively adopted the stance of his all-time comic book hero, the Silver Surfer and closed his eyes.

The hit on the descending mascot was meant to have coincided with the detonation of a homemade explosive suicide vest worn by an ISIS collaborator stationed at the tunnel through which the games’ other entertainments and competitors were to emerge to fall in on the field.

The malfunction resulted in Mike going into a dive and headed straight for the opening to the tunnel.

Standing at its opening was a suspicious looking figure, out of keeping with current trends in family friendly amusements.

It was a Teletubby. Possibly Dipsy.

Wearing the costume was none other than Grange Dempsey, the radicalized, disgruntled former child star of commercial situation comedy who had been reduced to doing the Leagues Club circuit as a parody of himself as an out of work actor turned puppeteer. A puppeteer with a decidedly vindictive streak channeled through his animated charges.

A natural progress, really…

The problem with ISIS recruits is that the handlers can never be entirely sure of the prowess of an individual and their ability to execute the objective.

The detonator contained within the prosthetic hand of the character’s costume was always going to be a tricky proposition, however many times its deployment had been drilled.

Needless to say, an encounter with an out of control games mascot called Borobi who had recast himself into the Silver Surfer was not a contingency that the terrorists had bargained on.

Before Grange had time or the wits to realise what was taking place and detonate himself, he was struck a decisive blow for Australian values and branding.

It was a wipe out on the Teletubby front. A shirtfront. Tony Abbott would have been proud.

The perpetrators were arrested and put into indefinite detention on Norfolk Island, where they remain to this day (still subject to the findings of the Royal Commission – stripping of citizenship and exile is still considered the likely outcome).

Mike saved the day.

He also inadvertently saved his relationship.

Margot couldn’t hold a grudge for long, despite Mike having stolen the limelight. He had stood up and was counted (almost like a census, except you can’t claim to be a Jedi or indigenous creature of a local dialect, so named), for what he did not know that he believed in anything at that precise moment, apart from feeling more at home back on terra firma or in the ocean.

Now she could bask in the glory and share in his mission for life. As a recipient of the Bravery Medal and nominee for Australian of the Year, Mike was considering his options, including standing for council with a view to maybe having a crack at the state legislature.

As a former Ironman he could not fail to garner the votes. His role as Borobi was the icing on the cake.

How sweet it was.

Margot could then afford to take more of a backseat and discretely dictate terms as to how public (and private) policy could best be influenced while Mike was increasingly preoccupied by his alter-ego of community-man mascot to the elite powers that be – including powerbrokers to the vision that was state secession.

(The ‘sandgropers’ of Western Australia didn’t have precedence in that debate.)

In the mean time she was all ready to take a well-earned break.

Following her therapist’s advice, she was to depart on a three week trip to Jordan and a Dead Sea resort where she could be pampered and indoctrinated in the ways of electrolytes as a surefire physiological supplement and independence tactic.

She would not have been able to relax if she’d remained at Meridian Palms.

Massage, facials, detox (ha ha! That was a joke), yoga, meditation just didn’t cut it. In her mind she was like a diamond that needed to be hewn from the rough stone of life’s experience. She hadn’t quite become a hardened shell of herself, but felt as if she needed to take a chance.

If you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down, If you're all alone when the pretty birds have flown, Honey I'm still free Take a chance on me, Gonna do my very best and it ain't no lie If you put me to the test, if you let me try Take a chance on me…

South Africa or the Kimberley for that matter had been an option, but she wanted to escape the constant reminder of the restraints that bind.

Mike could look after himself and the new staff would take care of operations in her absence. Mike would see to that. What choice did he have? He would be so busy with his rekindled fame that he’d hardly notice her gone.

She needed the space to execute her maneuvers.

Margot had a new part to perfect.

Jordan was to be a mere stopover come hookah swayed smokescreen en route to a sojourn in Venice where she would attend a ‘furry fan’ convention.

She despised the term ‘plushy’.

Mike didn’t know what he had unleashed.

He had his form of self-projection in that heroic blue and tattered mascot still doing the rounds after the event, even if only in the collective memory.

Now it was Margot’s turn to shine. Again.

Her chosen form was an anthropomorphic cougar, which she had decided on after reconsidering the competition as a vixen.

If anything, she remained realistic.

By Michael Haward.