My father, Johannes Willems, initially worked for the Canberra Times newspaper and later the Government Printer. He is the biggest misery-guts I've ever known, but his negative attitude didn't scar me for life. I'm not writing this because I'm still trying to compensate for a bad childhood, being picked on in school, or having a prehensile tail (since removed). My childhood was okay, much better than many. When dad got a new job up in Queensland, we all relocated to Brisbane and the "Sunshine State".

In Bald Hills everybody knew your name. In other words, it was like hanging out at the Cheers bar. Such familiarity was mostly comforting, unless, of course, you were a kid who had done something you didn't want your family to find out about. My parents called these informers "good neighbours". We kids just called them dobbers.

Bald Hills was a great place. It was so small that our morning traffic report depended on a bloke looking out his window and saying, "The light is green." Our fire department didn't have a truck, just a long hose. If an emergency happened, you just cupped your hands and yelled "Triple 0!" It was also a safe place. You could ride your bike or walk anywhere with no worries. Our home-security system meant latching the screen door. If our screen was ripped, that was still no cause for alarm. For extra protection we had a Pest strip in the living room.

Our backyard was mostly dirt, but we filled it with interesting stuff like a wonky basketball backboard and rim through which I could never sink a shot. There was also a pile of roof tiles, a mound of top soil, and a double kitchen sink turned upside-down. My father kept crickets underneath to use as fish bait.