From the front window of my study I have panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean, and from the rear window, the National Park forest (without Grace Kelly, unfortunately).
But within my study, I am surrounded by photographs of my family.
My great-grandparents fix me with the grim, unsmiling stares of the about-to-be-condemned, which I choose to believe is related to the long photographic exposure times required at the end of the nineteenth century, rather than disapproval and disappointment at the way their earnest begetting efforts turned out.
My maternal grandfather, crippled with rheumatoid arthritis, holds a pipe in his grotesquely deformed hand. He is proudly wearing his son's World War II RAAF officer's cap, but looks away from the camera, wishing that he had been able to leave a more impressive image of himself for posterity.
Next to him is a photograph of my paternal grandfather. I took this photo when I was about 15 years old.
He was a strong, quiet man who had worked in his youth as a labourer on the Balmain wharves, at the time of formation of the Labor Electoral League, precursor of the Australian Labor Party.
He's looking directly at me, a skinny, freckled kid with a Box Brownie, and he has a gentle smile on his face. It's a smile that says "He's a bit of a weed, but I love him."
Next to Grandad, there is a photo of my Mum and Dad that I took 55 years ago when I was home between terms at University.
They are cheek to cheek, hugging each other - Mum smiling, Dad staring at me with a look full of love and pride.
It's a lot to live up to.
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