It's certainly been a varied beginning to my 2021!
On day two I found myself in an aged care facility certifying 'life extinct' on a gentleman in his nineties. He'd suffered from a chronic degenerative disease and finally died from pneumonia. I'd never seen the man before but I paused to look at the family photos that were on every wall. He'd obviously lived a full and well loved life and it was a paradox to look at those life-filled photos and then to look down and see the white, cold, lifeless corpse in the bed in front of me.
Day three found me celebrating a positive pregnancy test with a young Mum-to-be. She was about 6 weeks pregnant and even at that tiny stage I knew that the embryo within her was already human in form and had a beating heart! 
Which brings me to the "miracle of life". Where does it come from and where does it go? This sort of question has been asked ever since humanity walked over our plains and across the mountains, and still we have't found the answer to this question.
I raise all this because on days 2,3,4,5,6,7, and 8 I have found myself having listening to patients of all ages who are suffering from anxiety. Sadly, the majority of those caught on the barb of bewilderment are young folk in their teens and twenties. And there is no one-size-fits-all for everyone as we all come from different backgrounds, environments, value systems (or lack of) etc.
I suspect that much of the anxiety is fear of not being in control and certainly a fear of dis-ease and death. Prior generations have had to deal with pandemics of global influenza, epidemics of polio, global wars, Holcausts, genocides, depressions ..... it's a long list. Previous generations also perhaps had a greater acceptance of sickness and death as being a natural part of the cycle of life - albeit that it was always accompanied by grieving and loss.

Today we are faced with daily headlines screaming FEAR .... and we need to put that into perspective.

A Swiss psychologist called Vicktor Frankl wrote a book called Mans Search for Meaning - a book well worth reading. In essence he was saying that if you have a meaning for living then you can put up with almost any amount of suffering.

In these times of wall to wall electronic distractions via phones, tablets and VR we find little time to explore the reason of "why am I here"? "What do I truly believe in?" No one can give you an answer to these types of questions as it's a life long search, but paradoxically it's a journey that can give you a sense of purpose and a real sense of comfort. I also recommend you to the ancient story of the Fisher King, which tells the story of Parsivals search for the Holy Grail, is still just as relevant today. Robert Johnson wrote a good book on the male psychology based on this story entitled "He" (he also wrote excellent books entitled She and We too!)

My challenge to you is that perhaps today is a great time to look past the clouds that seem to pervade our society and our own minds and see the blue skies and the rays of sunlight which splinter the darkness. 

The answer is out there!

                                                                   The Fenians
It was strange that Mrs Wright was the cause of Kip meeting up with Maali. But then, the fates often work that way.
The good ladies of the Anglican Church community had decided that it would be nice to do something for the native children as they called them. The something they chose to do was to invite them to an afternoon tea party in the Church grounds. A committee was formed - naturally - and a time and date settled upon. A delegation was sent to inform the native children that they were to attend on a specific Sunday at a specific time. No RSVP was included in the invite!
The first hurdle to overcome was to inform the Whadjuk folk of when, and what a Sunday was! It turned out that they called it wangarden ngoolyanak,  which means screaming cockatoos in english, because when the church bells rang all the cockatoos flew out of the trees screaming in fright! The second challenge was to get them to understand that the children had to arrive at a specific time. Never having bothered too much with such a concept, it was eventually decided that they’d send a messenger along to bring them.
Kip was chosen as the man with a message.
On that blessed day of benevolence, the ladies had prepared tea, cakes and sandwiches and set them out on the shaded side of the church building. The more enlightened had even made some home made lemonade and biscuits. Kip was dispatched and took to the task with his usual unbridled enthusiasm. Maali’s family had a camp not far from the Settlement. Their original land was a bit further away but suffered from the fatal flaw of having the best views and the best land around for the more discerning settler. The aborigines had been ‘re-located’ to their current location on top of the cliffs which made access to their usual fishing grounds far more difficult. But they coped - just.
Kip arrived at the camp and stood there with his hands on his hips grinning from ear to ear. To anyone else’s eyes, it would appear that no one was expecting him and none of the children were ready. Maali, who was sitting with her mother at the time, was the first to spot him and smiled when she recognized his face. She whispered to her Mum and then went over to Kip.
“You’re Kip aren’t you” she asked.
“Yep” he smiled back. “You want to come and play at my place?”
They stood there grinning at each other. 
“Come on, let’s go” Kip said excitedly.
“Hold one” Maali said, I need to get my brothers and sisters and cousins.
“Can I come with you” he asked?
Taking him by the hand the two children headed off as if they’d know each other all their lives. They gathered together a motley crew of half a dozen reluctant, scrawny shy kids and headed back down the track to town. Up front, Kip and Maali chatted away about this and that, exchanging ideas and information as they went.
“I’ve seen you before” Maali said as they descended the hill leading to the main settlement.
“When was that?”
“You were asleep in a log with old man brown snake sleeping in your lap. Djidi came to me and asked me to help so I took old man snake away and gave him a real good talking to.”
“Wow” Kip answered as a broad smile wreathed around his lips, “I don’t remember that! That’s amazing.” His imagination kicked into a higher gear, “Gee, it must be fun to be able to pick up snakes and not get bitten.” Adopting his serious expression he added, “My Dad says snakes can be very dangerous.”
Maali’s smile revealed perfect white teeth. “They’re not as dangerous as moondoong.”
“What are they” asked Kip. “They must be really scary then!”
Maali thought it best not to tell Kip that moondoong were white people.
Afternoon tea was not a great success. The ladies seemed to see the children as some sort of exotic exhibits from a zoological garden, whilst the children didn’t know what to make of such strange folk - wearing so many clothes and pretending not to feel hot. The food tasted terrible too to their way of thinking, though the sweetness of the cakes made up for the strangeness of the texture.
The children all gathered around Maali yet Kip was the only white person who seemed to be at ease with them. He and Maali developed an instant friendship and that made me so happy that I decided to drop in on them and share the fun ... and the food they’d dropped on the ground. Some ladies tried to shoo me away, and some of the boys chased after me until they got bored and decided to retreat to their own plans and clans. Soon enough I found my way back to where my two friends were chatting away to each other. Maali saw me first and tossed a few crumbs in my direction.
“Does he talk to you” Kip asked?
Maali looked surprised. “Sometimes. Why did you ask?”
“He talked to me once” he confided, “but I didn’t tell anyone. Most people seem to think I’m away with the fairies anyway and I didn’t want to give them anymore ammunition.” A wry expression curled up one side of his face.
Maali looked at Kip and saw that deep within, her new friend was not just lonely, he was very bright too. Still, she was not sure whether she’d just found a kindred spirit or just another annoying boy! “I promise I won’t tell anyone” she whispered back to him conspiratorially. 
“Kip the dolphin talked to me as well. In fact we played catch together.”
This time Maali’s eyes opened wide. “You talked with Kwili?”
“Yep” he said with a proud grin on his face.
This time it was her turn to murmur “Wow. Really?”
“He said that I could call him if ever I needed him.” A frown shaded his face, “How did he get those scars on his side?”
“You really did see Kwili then?”
“Of course. Why would I tell you a lie” he replied in total innocence.
Maali, who in her short life had excelled at learning the lore of her people from her mother and aunts, had learned many stories about the great Kwili, king of the ocean and river, and of how he was the defender of all that the great Rainbow serpent had created on the land and in the waters that flowed over, under and around it. 
“I thought that he only spoke to our people” she said, “but I think I can understand why he spoke to you too. You’re special Kip and I’m glad to be your friend even if you are a boy!” She pushed him in fun. Kip toppled back and landed on the table laden with tea cups and displaying the splendid sponge cake that the Vicars wife had created. There was a tremendous crashing noise as dozens of smashing cups, saucers and plates hit the ground all around him. Kip struggled to his feet and accidentally placed his hand smack bang in the middle of the sponge cake as he tried to rise.
“Oops” he said looking around sheepishly.
Mrs Wright had just manoeuvered her way into the gaggle of women surrounding the Governor’s wife when the calamity happened. To say that she was incandescent with rage would have done damage to the dignity of light! Whilst some nearby, kindly ladies helped Kip to his feet and tried to clean him up, Mrs W approached with one sole aim in life - retribution for her shame.
Maali meanwhile had slipped quietly over to where her family and friends were and whispered that it was time for them to leave. The party was over.
The Vicars wife’s tea party was the main topic of conversation in the Colony for some weeks afterwards. Most thought it to be funny, Mrs Wright’s intimates commiserated with her about how boys will ‘always let you down’, MRs W herself took her revenge on Kip who was beaten and grounded for a month. Poor Mr Wright was also the subject of her wrath for being such a weak man and such a poor example to the children - indeed to the whole of the colony. She sent him to Coventry which had the unexpected effect of making his life so much easier.
Kip himself never let on the reason for his fall from grace. 
After some weeks, the misadventure at the vicarage was instantly forgotten with the news that a ship full of Irish convicts was due to anchor at Fremantle in the next few days. The gossip mongers went into overdrive. The newspaper had, for many years been supporting the idea of importing convict labour to help with the expansion of the colony. It was thought that with the cheap labour the farmers would be able to harvest bigger crops and the english prisons would be relieved of some of their burden at the same time. As for the convicts themselves, well, no one really gave them too much thought. In fact most of them thrived in their new found freedom. In the end, it turned out that every one reaped a benefit.
But with the arrival of the Irish, a different type of convict was about to join their ranks. These were not petty thieves or hardened criminals, these men were political prisoners. Their fame preceded them. Nearly all of them were well educated with a passionate love of their homeland and a deep disgust of how the British had treated the Emerald Isle.
Finally, one sunny day, the Hougoumont sailed over the horizon and dropped anchor off the port of Fremantle. Over the next few days it disgorged its human cargo onto the beach. There were two hundred and sixty convicts and almost a hundred passengers. In the town there was a festival atmosphere as the locals gathered to greet and gawp at the new arrivals.
The prisoners were directed to the big new imposing Fremantle prison which was to act as home to some of them - especially those considered the most dangerous: the murderers, the rapists and the Irish! The remaining convicts were soon released into the care of farmers and artisans from all around the expanding colony and most became model citizens. Even the murderers and rapists seemed to reform under the great southern skies and considering the number of villains who had arrived, very few reappeared before judge and jury.
The Irish were in a class of their own though.
Amongst them there were poets, writers and charmers! JB O’Reilly stood out from the rest. One day, when they were on a work patrol in the main settlement, Kip ran over to him saying “Hi, my name is Kip. Do you want to come to my place and play?”
The Irishman was pleasantly taken aback by the innocence of the child replying “Well Kip, I’d really like to do that but unfortunately I have a previous engagement, perhaps another day?”
Kip, not to be deterred went on “My Dad makes boots and shoes. He’s so clever at doing that. And my best friend is Maali. Do you know her?”
“No lad. I haven’t had that honour yet.”
“She’s a Noongar girl. She and I have met some amazing animals and birds.” As he said the word amazing, his eyes widened to match his emotions.
“Well Master Kip, I’m surely looking forward to meeting your Pappy and your friend Maali. It seems to me that there’s a lot to learn in this new country of yours. Perhaps, if I may make so bold, I might be able to teach you a few Irish ballads and poems and tell you a few stories of my own.”
“That would be so good Mister ...?”
“John O’Reilly, but most people call me JB.” With that he extended his hand and warmly shook Kips. 
“Move on back there Irish” shouted the guard at the head of the detail.
“I look forward to seeing you again soon Kip” JB winked.
“Me too, Mr O’Reilly,” and the young boy saluted as the Irishman was marched away with the others.

​Here is the first Chapter from my children's book - Kip - which I will be serialising over the next several weeks before publishing later this year..
I hope you enjoy 


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​                                                                        Great Southern Land

It was the year of our Lord 1836, and the sailing ship the St Vincent had just deposited the Wright family on the beach at Fremantle. Their intention had been to make a new life for themselves on Government land one hundred miles to the south of the fledgling Settlement. But things didn’t work out exactly as they planned.
“I knew it” harrumphed Mona Wright.
Mona’s the wife of Joseph, and mother of three young Wrights: Annabel, the eldest, Kipling their son, and the formidable baby Freddie, prone to ferocious fits of crying if he doesn’t get his way.
“It’s all your fault Joseph” she fumed dropping both of her cases on the sand.
Joseph is a cobbler by trade and despite his large frame and ponderous way of thinking, when it comes to dealing with all things soft and leather he is a veritable genius.  He is also the butt of his spouse’s venom, a habit unfortunately inoculated into her autocratic daughter Annabel. Mona, the fourth child of a distressed farmer from Ickleford, a small village in the countryside of Hertfordshire, linked Mona Wright, in her limited imagination, to the landed gentry of Great Britain.
For her, that she had met Joe was a circumstance to be eternally regretted. For her, that she had married him, was a great stumbling block on her road to attaining her true station in life. Yet to most sensible people it was great good fortune. As for status, Joe may not have been a great catch, but he was a wonderful provider and he had the gentlest of hearts.
It was Mona who had seen the advertisement in a tattered copy of the London Times seeking Fit and willing settlers for the new colony on the Swan River in Western Australia. Here was the chance she sought of escaping mediocrity and establishing herself amongst the landowners of a new country, of making their fortune and bestowing her favors and graces  on the subjects of that distant land.
Unbeknown to them, during their three month sea journey from London, things had gone from bad to worse in the new settlement and by the time the Wrights arrived, their promised land  had been totally abandoned.
Standing on the sandy shore she demanded that her husband fix the situation immediately. Joe put down his load, picked it up again before putting it back down. He took the hat off his head and scratched his thick black locks as if trying to dig out a solution. Having failed, he put his hat on again and, picking up his load once more, headed off toward a gaggle of fellow, bewildered settlers. From his vantage point, perched on of his Dad’s wide shoulders, young Kipling - or Kip was he was known - soaked up everything  and he was mightily delighted with everything that he saw.
It was strange to watch it all. No one took any notice of me. Who would? Just another silly willy wagtail hopping around looking for flies. But someone had seen me. Kip was watching and as he went by on his familiar mount, he waved at me. There was something thrilling about the smile he gave me  and I thought, ‘this one’s different’. And I was right.
Kip’s a strange lad. He’s so happy in himself, although some things do make him unhappy. I see the shadow of sadness on his face when his Mum yells at him for something or other, which is usually not his fault. But he always bounces back. I like that in a child. Over the following months I noticed all these things from a distance as the small family found their feet in the main settlement of Swan River. Joseph is a good worker and a skilled artisan and it wasn’t long before he had established himself in a small business repairing and making boots for the army, and creating fashionable shoes for those who could afford to wear them. Getting the right hide for leather was hard but he soon learned how to use kangaroo skin when cow hide was too scarce or too expensive.
“You shouldn’t pay those blacks so much for those flea bitten skins” Mona declared one morning over breakfast. Joe was sitting on a stool next to the fire with Kip in his usual position next to him. Annabel had woken up feeling tired. Being highly favored by her mother, that good lady fussed over her before declaiming that Kip would do her chores for this morning as the poor thing needed a lie-in. Freddie was thankfully asleep.
“Now come my dear” Joe began, “them poor fellows deserve all I give ‘em and ...”
He was cut short by the sour face of his wife. “You shouldn’t encourage them” she retorted haughtily. “Think of my position in society. What will the ladies  think of me if my husband trades with the natives? And your poor daughter? Think of the shame she has to live with knowing what her father does.”
Joe looked at Kip and in their secret language decided to keep their heads down and finish their food. In their case, silence was often the better part of valor. With an exasperated “Cat got your tongue then,” and finding herself unable to vent her spleen on the two of them, she dropped the porridge pot on the table near them and frumphed out to the scullery.
“There he is again Joe” said Kip pointing at me in the doorway, “do you think he understands what we’re saying?”
“Well, and don’t let your mother hear tell that I told you so Kip, but to my mind there’s more to birds and animals and fishes than meets the eye. There’s definitely more Kip” and with that deep insight he scrapped the pot clean, finished off his meal and carried his dish to the sink to wash.
“Can you understand what I’m saying” Kip asked looking straight at me?
Now call me suspicious, but I take it as a rule not to rush into conversations with humans, otherwise all sorts of unexpected troubles can result. So I did my usual trick of acting very bird-like, hopping hither and yon in the doorway. Then, impulsively, I perched myself on the kitchen table next to him. What was I thinking? This could end up badly but Kip just grinned and said in a very bad english accent, “Welcome to my royal court my Lord Wagtail. And to what honor do we deserve the pleasure of your esteemed company?”
I think the sun must have boiled his freckle faced head.
“I’m not a wagtail mate, I’m a djidi djidi.”
Well, the look on his face was priceless: shock, wonder and delight all rolled into one small boys face. Before he could recover, I took flight.
I didn’t see Kip for some months after that so I don’t know if or what he told anyone. He probably told his Dad because the two of them were both children at heart, which was one of the reasons they were as thick as thieves. The other obvious reason that they were so close was Mrs Wright. She saw the two of them as the root cause of her loss of social standing and, as a result, her sole objective in life seemed to be to harass and harangue them at every opportunity.
Magpie, who likes to forage amongst the gardens down at the settlement whilst holding parliament with his mates, would keep me up to date with what was going on down there. He told me that he’d often see Kip head off into the bush on his own, usually with a stick - not to ward off snakes or wild beast, but to wield it as a mythical sword, such was the depth of the boys magical imagination. Kip would climb up onto rocks and shout out at the sky, calling to the wild birds and any creature that would listen that their long lost king had returned. At other times he’d stand by the river skimming stones and picking up the jelly fish that float back and forth with the tidal swell. He’d only pick them up to study them and I’d heard that he’d even tell them some of his fantastical stories. Most other boys just scooped the poor creatures out, dropped them on the sandy shore before dropping a rock on them. Boys can be cruel sometimes - but not young Kip, he was different. The trouble with being different though is that it attracts attention, mostly of the wrong sort.
“They’re pecking on him.” That was Magpie who wiffled his way to land near me one day. Seeing the confused look on my face he added, “The boys, they’re pecking on Kip again.”
“Don’t you mean picking” I said, waggling my tail perhaps a tad too cockily.
Magpie tilted his head, his viciously long beak and his beady black eye daring me to defy him. Discretion being the better part of valor, I hopped a few years further away from him where I bobbed and weaved in a more modest fashion.
“Worms” he said, staring back down at a small patch of grass.
“Worms?”
Sometimes I just give up with Magpies, most of them have some sort of short circuit in their brains which makes having an intelligent conversation with them almost impossible.
“Worms. Humans get them. Makes them grumpy. Boys must have worms because they’re very grumpy with Kip.”
Sometimes Magpie has the logic of a very troubled bird!
“Where’s are they?”
My black and white informer turned his head, setting me with his other beady eye. “Who?”
“The boys who are bullying Kip!”
“Oh, that was yesterday.” He speared his beak into the ground before withdrawing it and producing a wriggling grub as if by magic. “Must fly” he said before thrashing off, although I doubt he got his own joke

I read a poem by Max Boyce the Welsh comedian recently, it was about the SARS Covid II pandemic and was both humorous and apposite. One of my sons challenged me to put my thoughts into verse too, and this is the result......

I was sitting in my consulting room, taking a break between patients, and I began to think about the Corona Virus and the death and anxiety it has caused. Such a huge thing has happened to the whole world and it’s happened in such a short time.
For some (very) strange reason, a song came into my head:
The Times They Are A Changing .......
It was back in the Sixties, the 1960’s, when Dylan’s iconic song - Blowing in the wind - came out. Think last century, last millennium, an era which less and less of us actually remember, yet thankfully his music lives on.
Way back then the time that was a changing referred to the sexual revolution - the flower power inspired revolt against the staid and stodgy (and mainly hypocritical) mores of the post war fifties: an era which, I suspect, was even more challenging for parents than the current pandemic is for the work-from-home parents of this home-schooled generation. The teenagers of the sixties were the amongst the first to be born who hadn’t experienced a war in their lifetime, wars which had destroyed the youth (and the lives) of so many of their parents, their grandparents and their great grandparents. Those kids of the sixties, with flowers in their hair and singing about love and peace are now the ageing baby boomers of our times.
These boomers were in primary school in UK when food rationing ended in 1954, and bomb craters still pockmarked the centre of London. The sixties not only brought about huge societal changes but It also brought great confrontation between father and son, mother and daughter, it upended long valued faith in Church and State.
Fast forward sixty years and we are yet again experiencing great change, but instead of sex, drugs and rock and roll, this current revolution has been precipitated by a microscopic virus - gazillions of them in fact, and all of them produced within our own human cells and then passed on to our fellow citizens. In the matter of a few weeks the whole world has reacted and wisely retreated into their homes to wait it out. There has been a massive human cost caused by this virus and yet... and yet.....
We have changed so rapidly, adapted like we’ve never done before in just a few days, a few weeks that I think that most of us are still in a state of bewilderment.
A month seems like a hundred years ago.
Despite the death of those of advanced age and the sadness of their loved ones: despite the tragedy of those who’ve died trying to care for the sick in hospital and despite the millions of jobs lost, I feel an air of enormous optimism about our human race.
We do care.
We can adapt rapidly.
We want to make a difference.
We can respond respectfully.
We will survive this and be so much the better for it.
So the question is:
When it’s all over, what sort of world do we really want?
I for one want to have the air so clear over every city in the world that every kid can look up and see the stars at night.
I want the water in our rivers and oceans to be so clean that even the fish are happy!
I want every person who lives in isolation, anxiety or fear to know that there are people in their neighbourhood who really care and are there for them.
I want people to know that “enough” really is “enough.’ You can only sleep in one bed, live in one house, drive one car - or even better ride a bike.
I want old folk to be integrated with young folk and not feel they need to move into retirement villages as if they’re waiting for the final boarding call for the last flight out of here.
I want to see social media used for finding out How you’re doing, not What you’re doing.


The list is long and I’m sure that you all have your own ideas


We’ve proved we can make huge changes in such a short period of time, and my hope is that now we’ve flexed out can-do muscles, we’ll keep on using them.

I’ve spent a number of years writing stories for one simple reason - I want to communicate ideas, wisdom, hope and that lifeblood of our world .... love.
Writing has been the easy part, sharing my books has been fun and the feedback I get is always good - but then, that’s usually from the people I’ve given my books to. The hard part of being a writer is being heard! Stories lie silent between the covers of the books they inhabit but it takes word of mouth to spread them.
If you’re reading this then please tell four other people about my books and then ask them to tell four more. At my age I’m not in the “writing business” to make my fortune - I wouldn’t have time to spend it! - but to share what I have learned over many decades, because they’re stories that have real values, real hope and believe in real love.
Thank you.

I've just made it to three score years and ten - and so far so good!
I've been so blessed to have such an awesome family and to be loved so consistently by my beloved wife Maggie.
My family and friends may not be the source of my inspiration - but then I'm pretty sure that they turn up in in my books in some guise or other from time to time.
And then there are my work colleagues and patients who make my life so very interesting and full. Again, in their own way, they have influenced the style of my writing which is based on the theme of those vagaries of life - suffering, hope and redemption.
So here are some photos of the poor blighters who have had to tolerate me over so many years. If you partake of a beverage then I suggest you raise your glass and offer them the toast:
Long life and happiness.