From the desk of ROLAND ROCCHICCIOLI

AS a child it never occurred there would be another century other than the 20th. I was born before the middle of that century. I wrote a line in a play set in 1942 which reads: “When men, who are now boys are old, in the distant time beyond the year 2000…” It was prophetic. Now it is reality. Incredulously, it is 2026!

Impossible to believe, but another year has vanished into the ether. The further one gets from ones date-of-birth the faster time slips-away.

Gifted of an extraordinarily good memory, I remember with clarity the vital vignettes of my life; the faces and the voices of those people with whom I have been allowed to share my incredible journey. Often times, looking-back through the prism of the 21st-century, the friends from my childhood once more are before me /fond memories waken as freely I roam. The memories imbue an overwhelming joy, and do much to make some sense of who-and-what I have become.

The wisdom of my parents, Beria and Ginger, rings in my ears, still. Now, more than ever, I am profoundly grateful for the opportunities my father bestowed — and all from the sweat of his brow. My childhood in the North-eastern goldfields of Western Australia was geographically idyllic. Emotionally it vacillated. Philosophically, it was a cauldron of 28-nationalities. Their Herculean effort for survival is why Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor’s conduct caused me to bridle, incandescently. Gifted of every thinkable opportunity he behaved so shamefully. Only a thankless dullard would abuse such largesse.

My father knew education was the answer to breaking the cycle. He came from Magliano, a Tuscan village — population of about 200 — in the Alpi Apuane. He was a pastore — a shepherd. The family owned a sizeable herd of milking sheep for producing pecorino cheese. He came to Australia, 1926, aged 17. He died, Kalgoorlie — aged 63.

When it came for me to be sent away to college he sold his only asset, a house, for £250. I had no intellectual comprehension of his sacrifice. Today, I am humbled by his magnanimity. Divorced from my mother, he placed me and my sister above all else. He set me free. Were it not for his devotedness I might have ended-up in a factory — putting tops-on-mops.

Never have I forgotten from whence I came. It was a rich melting-pot of ancient, European culture. It was a time and place the like of which the world will never know again. The flotsam and jetsam from war ravaged Europe found there way to Gwalia — 147-miles north-east of Kalgoorlie. There was little to remind them of home — even the stars were different; however, they took comfort in each other, and out of the isolation they crafted a rich community. They changed the face of the Nation. Like a phoenix, I emerged from their cultural furnace.

The theatre and the wireless have been the abiding passions. Consumed by the work, it has fired my imagination — sent me on exciting adventures; taken me to the four corners of the globe; allowed me to walk and talk with some of our most fascinating people. I have stood in the darkened wings and watched our most creative actors work their magic and cast their spells. It continues to be a most exhilarating journey.

I send every blessing for a Happy and Peaceful New Year. Contact: [email protected]