My friends in England are puzzled. Again. They look at Australia as they would stare sorrowfully at a teenage relative, off the rails. Such promise, such disappointment. Why isn’t their lad from Oz as steady and confident as that other young blood from New Zealand?

I came to this magnificent country with its long history and huge promise back in 1964. I knew no-one here and explored in innocence. I had been given a romantic vision of the Land Down Under by my Aussie friends in London. They were always welcoming visitors, from Oz—uniformly cultured and relaxed folk who all seemed to be natural athletes and who by right knew British intellectual superstars such as Bertrand Russell and J.B. Priestley personally. They enjoyed a jar with the informality that contrasted sweetly with London swank,