Painting Fakes

One of the prevailing myths of Australian history is that the European invaders who arrived after 1788 were the first to 'settle' the land.  In this story, the country's original inhabitants were nomadic hunter-gatherers, wandering randomly over the countryside plucking its riches without doing anything to create them. It's a myth that dies hard.  Our recent Prime Minister Tony Abbot (now, ironically, the government's 'special envoy on Indigenous affairs') loves to celebrate the wonders created by the arrival of the First Fleet. I guess our country owes its existence to a form of foreign investment by the British government in the then unsettled or, um, scarcely settled, great southern land. The arrival of the first fleet was the defining moment in the history of this continent. Yet over recent decades, historians have steadily chipped away at this myth.  Most Australians now know that Aboriginal people did not roam randomly, they travelled on a seas

I turn 57 this week.  I'm at the stage of life where each birthday is not so much a cause for celebration, cake and presents, as a reminder of the passing of time. My father lived to 77, so if this is any indication I might have about 20 years of life left.  Of course I am healthier than my Dad.  He smoked, and was overweight, and he died of heart failure.  I don't smoke, am barely overweight, and ride my bike to stay fit.  So perhaps I might live longer.  Maybe I have 30 years. Then again, my Mum was also much healthier than my Dad.  She didn't smoke, and never carried an ounce of extra weight.  But she was cut down by a brain tumour, and died at the age of 71.  So who knows, perhaps I only have 14 years. Perhaps next time I go for a ride I'll get cleaned up by a careless motorist and die on the spot. No-one knows the day or hour of their death. This might sound maudlin and a bit creepy, but I don't spend a lot of time worrying about it, to be honest.