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That strip of golden Western Australian sand, City Beach to Trigg Island, is a lotus land where young, middle-aged and old romantics run their lazy lives away. It was there, a few kilometres west of Perth that I spent twenty-seven years of the happiest living available to humans. Victoria, my birthplace, the main arena for my learning, my music, sport and that superior being, woman, had embraced the previous twenty-odd years of my life, but I had sneezed my way through the oppressive heat and cold of Melbourne long enough. It was time to throw away the wet handkerchief and head westward.
But what was my real motive for going west? In a word, fear. I had returned from a war, faced the armed might of the Japanese Imperial Forces at sea, in the air and on land, so what could possibly scare the wits out of me in staid old Melbourne Town? A criminal - a five-foot-six little crook from Melbourne's most famous bayside beach suburb, that’s who. One night I was strolling down the road, enjoying the evening air in cool St Kilda with the imperious ex-Russian ballet star, Kira Abricossova, when just in front of us a little chap dressed in a business suit stole an orange from the display at the front of a fruit shop. Abricossova scolded: "Naughty boy!" He peeled some skin off the orange and threw it in her face. Ever gallant, I also remonstrated: "I say, old chap!" He trumped my ace and spat in Kira's face. I lost my temper. "Now, steady on!" I cried. In return he gave me one for luck behind the ear. I went into action in my best commando fashion and was soon in the process of battering his head against a motorcar parked at the kerb.
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"Stay there, Jim!" he shouted.
I disobeyed. We ran across, almost under the horse's neck. My father stood, white faced, stiff with anger.
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