Those who grow up only knowing the sanctuary of their true forebears, often find it difficult to comprehend why others search frantically for parents and family they have never known. The lucky majority fail to realise the importance of heritage: of knowing our past; of identifying who we really are during our short moment on Earth. For those seeking the truth, nature often wins out over nurture (even though the nurture may have been impeccable). Blood it seems is thicker than any other substitutes.

I was just twenty and not long into my first real job, when this tall, gangly, dark-suited specimen, with slicked back hair and buck teeth, stuck his head around the office door to announce that I was to work with him in South Australia. The guy was reputed amongst our band of young interns to be ferocious if pushed. It was the first time he had spoken to me on a one-to-one basis and I felt suitably intimidated.

The love of my life (to that point in time) appeared out of a dance club melee, shortly after I arrived in Adelaide. I was scouting ahead of my boss Tom, on my first real work assignment. Impressed by her miniskirt and sculptured 60s hairdo - which hurricane winds could not have shifted - ours was a remarkably short courtship: just a few months, ending with marriage vows in front of her Catholic altar. We were both too young, but it worked for a turbulent decade ....

“Yeah, I remember you. You’re the fucking friend of that prick who filled the batmobile with junk the other day! So if you think I’m going to fix your car, you can just piss off!” These were the endearing sentiments that came floating from the pit to kick-start a close friendship, which for me held a long list of indelible memories and lasted more than twenty-five years.

Talaloc Takuda put his foot on the gas as we sped away from the toll gate in his battered Toyota. He was a marvellous man. I loved how his name rolled off the tongue. He turned to smile at me as we resumed our travel, re-uniting with the four or five lanes of traffic streaming across the iconic bridge. Morning peak hour in Sydney. “Works every time,” he said, concentrating on the car up ahead ...

Exasperated and exhausted I slammed the door on the wagon, sweat pouring down my forehead, then walked towards the man sitting in the shade of a broad veranda. His attire reflected the heat of the moment: khaki shorts, brown boots and bushman’s hat, leaving sun-bronzed expanses of skin in between, exposed to the elements. The weatherboard house as the backdrop was what they called a homestead in these parts .....

Soon after returning from Europe, I was confronted by the stark truth that I qualified as a bastard. The news hit me like a sledgehammer blow to the balls! But as with most things in life, what seemed at first like a debilitating below-the-belt delivery, began to wane in significance with time. There were other things to worry about, such as clawing back the life I had known before leaving those antipodean shores.