Signed a week after parturition in 1962 in North Brighton, Victoria, my birth certificate has a space for the occupation of my father (professional engineer) but only my mother's name and maiden name are required. His Kirribilli address hints at our imminent relocation to the Big Smoke.

Although in his memoir my father pokes fun at his father's supposed feelings of entitlement as the son of "The Commissioner of Police" (dad writes it like this), we are instructed from infancy to spell the family name in the traditional way: "Small 'd' 'a' capital 's' 'i' 'l' 'v' 'a'" becomes a mantra for us kids.

Teen years see me consume armsful of Gerald Durrell and (thanks to my brother) reams of sci-fi paperbacks: Philip Jose Farmer (an Amerindian ziggurat-world), Anne McCaffrey (tiny dragons and toxic space flux), Ray Bradbury (the echoing plains of Mars), Tolkien (intrepid upholders of domesticity), Douglas Adams (wry takes on the present future).

Friends:

• Antony Anderson
• David Douglas-Robertson
• Barnaby Blackman
• James France
• Mark Dudley
• Brook Turner
• Roger Ferns
• Anthony Julien

Mozambique becomes an independent republic in 1975. Some members of my grandfather's family flee the revolution and relocate to South Africa. "Even Mozambique would be taken over eventually," my father recalls his father saying.

Joao Luis da Silva "died alone in a public hospital bed about 1.00am on 19 January 1977 leaving no money, no Will and little else but clothes in the cardboard Globite suitcase which accompanied him from his hostel suite on his last journey," writes my father.

My brother Peter moves to San Francisco to enrol in a course of study at the University of California, Berkeley.

Cranbrook School (old boys include Patrick White and Martin Sharp) offers objective rewards: the sailing medal and prizes for French and art. I am something of a philosopher.

Following the New South Wales Higher School Certificate exams my aggregate ranking puts me in the first decile of 1980 matriculands.