Nomad

Nomad Reviews

The beauty of an exotic locale, the drama of business intrigue, and the fascinating life of a pilot provide a solid foundation for a compelling novel. Winston Brown includes all of these elements in Nomad, a story largely drawn from his own life experiences as a civil aviation pilot who, with his young family, starts an airline in Papua New Guinea in the 1970s. The novel centres around a fresh and interesting subject. Readers may feel inspired to take risks to achieve their dreams and to long for more adventurous lives outside the safe confines of their own cultures and surroundings.

Foreword Clarion Reviews

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Nomad is a novel of many parts. It has adventure, intrigue, romance and on top of that, there is a rich element of travelogue to enliven it. Set in Papua New Guinea around the time of Independence in 1975, it outlines one man's near-fatal struggle to establish and grow an independent aviation company in the face of opposition from established operators and other greedy businessmen who are all hell bent on destroying the company - or taking it over. Added to that are vivid descriptions of flying over impossible terrain and coping with treacherous flying conditions that have always hampered aviation in one of the world's most exotic countries. And there is a romantic element too, though it does not intrude. The author has recreated perfectly the heady and uncertain excitement of the mid-1970s which clearly left an unforgettable impression on him. And now it does so with the reader. I enjoyed the book immensely. As a first novel, it is a very compelling read and a fine narrative achievement. Though it clearly is semi-autobiographical, if not fully so, there is nevertheless evidence of careful plotting and attention to the expected features of the adventure story.

Glyn Davies

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Papua New Guinea is a country never short on excitement. This is a rollicking tale of aviation in PNG. At times you will feel you are in the cockpit along with the pilot flying over and through one of the most dangerous and magnificent countries in the world.

Sean Dorney

Nomad

One Man's Struggle for Survival in Niugini

Winston Brown

Second Edition

PwB

Publishing

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Winston Brown

PwB Publishing

4 Cornish Close

Atherton, Qld 4883 Australia.

pete@winstonbrown.com.au

Phone: 61-415 362 007

License Notes: No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-0 9922671-1-7 (e)

ISBN: 978-0-9922671-0-0 (sc)

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

This is a work of non-fiction. The events described here are similar to history, and the characters are fictitious and not intended to represent specific living or deceased persons. Even when settings are referred to by their true names, the incidents portrayed as taking place there are purely the author's recollection of what perhaps took place; the reader should not infer that the events set here ever happened, but no doubt similar events did.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Camisado

Chapter 2 - Fain or Fortuned

Chapter 3 - Genesis

Chapter 4 - Political Leverage

Chapter 5 - Shuffling of the Cards

Chapter 6 - Competitive Influence

Chapter 7 - Touch and Go

Chapter 8 - The Company's Rightful Share

Chapter 9 - Up a Gear

Chapter 10 - East West North South

Chapter 11 - Boardroom Politics

Chapter 12 - Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 13 - Reincarnation

Epilogue

About the Author

Gratefully assisted by:

My wife Barbara, Lei Parker, Cassie Gardiner, Glyn Davies.

Papua New Guinea

Prologue

Nomad traces the fortunes of an aviation company conceived and established around the time of Papua New Guinea's independence in 1975. That period of the country's aviation history involved a struggle on the part of new operators to establish themselves alongside those already in existence, and the latter were experiencing major difficulties in the changed climate. There were no 'Queensberry Rules' - the gloves were off.

Papua New Guinea's history has often been one of violent and cannibalistic tribal conflict, and in the immediate post-independence period, this element penetrated the business communities, both local and expatriate, to some degree. Indeed, the 'pay-back system' is as alive now as ever.

Mountain flying requires considerable training, and nowhere is this more the case than in P.N.G. Tropical weather and commercial pressures place most pilots in very stressful situations at times. And because of P.N.G.'s remoteness, a free house, furniture and health-care were all parts of a normal employment contract in those days. So, a company manager often ended up as trainer, employer, parent, confidant and marriage counsellor to members of his or her staff, and to their respective families.

This is the story of Independent Aviation Transport, the first one-hundred-percent locally-owned aviation company in Papua New Guinea. It was also the first commercial purchaser of the Australian-built, gas turbine-powered, Nomad aeroplane. The rapid development of the IAT Company created a lot of resentment and jealousy... and that is just a part of the story.

Chapter 1

Camisado

The arrow took Hairy high in the left shoulder, throwing him hard against the wall of his servant's quarters. Along with a sharp stab of pain he felt the cassowary-bone barbs settling into his flesh. The metre-long cane shaft aggravated the wound with his every movement and, with teeth tightly clenched, he snapped it off. Another arrow just missed his head. It shattered the fibre-cement panel behind him. His mind was working overtime.

'This isn't a burglary. It's a bloody set up... Please! A gun! Or at least a baseball bat... Shit, an arrow - the low bastards.'

Be buggered, he thought, they weren't going to take control away from him. He'd started this company and by God he wasn't letting go.

As the plane slipped through the last gap in the rugged mountains on descent into Hagen, Hairy thought how much he loved flying. Mount Hagen lay just ahead bathed in brilliant sunlight, which was unusual for this time of day. The weather had rained itself out west of the town but to the east the thunderstorms were black and ominous, giving the sunlit valley a spectacular backdrop. Hairy loved this descent, with 170 knots on the clock, staying just a couple of hundred feet above the sloping ground as it fell away in front of him. It reminded him of his skiing days, zipping in and out of the moguls, back home in New Zealand. The approach into Hagen he knew like the back of his hand.

Easy enough in an easterly, he thought, but when the annual cyclones lashed against the far Papuan coast, that could all change in the blink of an eye, and the runway could close in a matter of minutes. Flying through the last gap in the mountains, he looked down over the steep gorges below to see precarious gardens cut into the mountain side, with the villagers waving back, just there at arm's length, with their wide, happy smiles. He loved this flight... always had.

Hagen certainly needed something, there was no doubt about that. The town itself would have to be one of the dirtiest, most unkempt towns in the country. Admittedly, the people of the Western Highlands Province, of which Mount Hagen is the capital, had been 'discovered' by our so-called civilisation only a mere forty years earlier. In a matter of few decades they had moved out of a stone age tribal existence to be thrust into the latter part of the twentieth century. For many years, the Australian administration system transformed, monitored and controlled this primitive population by using tertiary-educated patrol officers with unlimited legal powers, along with a local, armed police force to back them up. These well-meaning officers were answerable only to the District Commissioner. Sudden change came in 1975, when the Australian government granted Papua New Guinea independence. Many believed it was a poor decision at such an early stage of the country's development.

Flying over some of the most rugged terrain in the world and looking out over the subsistence gardens with thatched houses, Hairy wondered exactly what amount of progress had been achieved by the Australian administration. Many villages were still the same as they had been a thousand years ago, and Hairy was far from convinced that PNG was ready for its new-found independence.

He positioned the Nomad to head downwind and received his clearance to land. As he continued his approach, he thought about his squash appointment with Geoff later that day. Geoff had joined the Company as chief pilot a year before, and they played squash a couple of times a week. Geoff had always beaten him, until Hairy gave up smoking six months ago. Since then, Geoff could do nothing to overcome Hairy's winning streak. Hairy loved squash but he loved beating Geoff even more.

The touchdown at Kagamuga airport, just fifteen minutes' drive from Mount Hagen, was heralded by the screech of the tyres as they came up to speed on the longer 12/30 runway. This was always the first step in feeling the safety of the ground; the next was to feel the reassurance of the nose wheel taking the weight, with Hairy always at the ready to throttle hard and pull back for a touch-and-go should an emergency present itself.

Hairy smiled at the landing, touching the instrument panel in superstitious thanks, knowing how many aircraft littered this wild country. There were never any guarantees when flying in PNG.

As he taxied in towards their terminal at the north western end of the main runway, he signed off the daily work sheet, using his real name, John Richards. 'Hairy', was just the nickname he had acquired in his first year at high school. The woodwork master would look at his assignments and always comment, 'Gee, Richards, that's hairy.' The name just stuck.

Gidday, Jacob, had a good day? he asked, as he clambered out of the cockpit. Jacob, the cargo handler, a nuggetty little guy from Goroka, was dragging the fuel hose and mobile steps toward the aircraft. As always, Jacob was wearing just an old pair of thongs, tattered, torn shorts and a grubby shirt with its sleeves ripped off, revealing muscled brown arms capable of pumping a forty-four of avtur all day long. He was the face of the modern PNG warrior. Bright, capable and loyal, he had learnt his new skills quickly and was fast becoming indispensable.

Alright, Boss, he replied. You like fuel, how much?

Jacob still called Hairy 'Boss'. In fact, he called all the pilots 'Boss'. But actually, Hairy wasn't the boss any longer. If some of his company's directors were to believed, he had relinquished the management of the Company at a meeting, conducted without notification, whilst he and his Chinese-New Guinean wife, Maree, were on holiday in Australia and New Zealand. As far as Hairy was concerned, it was an illegal boardroom coup, and his reported resignation had no validity. However, he chose not to challenge the legality of the meeting, despite the palpable lack of notice. He was starting to find the responsibility onerous. Flying all day and then having to attend to administration matters, along with the personal problems of fifteen staff was getting to be too much. Not being Boss had its rewards.

He concluded that he needed time to outwit the boardroom politicians, so he could keep hold of his fifty-percent control of the company. Flying was a respite, and it gave him plenty of time to think. The new general manager that the board of directors had selected was reasonably experienced, it was said, and in his hands the company would continue to do well. With a capable chief pilot like Geoff to keep an eye on him, Hairy felt reasonably secure, though he still had his doubts about the appropriately named Newman.

There was a lot of jealousy within certain factions on the board, even resentment, at the power that Hairy wielded. However, he had to stop feeling sorry for himself. He wasn't the general manger any longer, but he did feel the need to reverse some of the policies that were now being put forward.

Fill up both sides, thanks Jacob, and give the cabin a good vacuum out. Put all the chairs in as well, please.

OK, mi pulmapim gut, na behain putim olgeta chair igo, Jacob chirped back in Pidgin.

Hairy was off to Tari in the Southern Highlands first thing in the morning to pick up eleven councillors for a meeting down in Moresby. In Hagen it was essential to be airborne at first light; most mornings the ground fog rolled in just after dawn, and a plane could be stuck on the ground until seven or eight o'clock if it was too far back in the queue.

Hairy knew that Jacob would take every care of the aircraft without his supervision and so he wandered off toward the new Provincial Air Services' terminal building, the only modern, functional terminal on the airport. He looked every bit like the dashing air heroes of the second war. At just 183 centimetres in height, and weighing only 66 kilograms, his slimness gave an impression that he was tall. His lean to the right, caused by the weight of his flight bag, increased as he pushed open the front door and lurched through it.

Hi, hon, how's your day been?

In the office, Maree lifted her head from the accounts that she was working on and with her warm, welcoming smile, greeted him.

"Great, and have I got a surprise for you? Your favourite girlfriend's arriving at six.''

Which one? retorted Hairy.

Terri and her new baby.

She's not slapping a paternity suit on me, is she? What's his handle going to be?

Hairy lowered his flight bag to the floor, at the same time giving his wife a loving kiss on the cheek.

You're not going to believe this - Dominic.

Oh, no - the Pope has got to give them a medal. I mean he's a doctor, his wife's a nurse and their eighth child is named Dominic. They just have to be dedicated.

You go and have your game of squash with Geoff. I'll pick up Terri and Dominic and we'll see you at home. Don't have too many beers at the club.

Who, me? What do you think I am? By the way, do we have some decent wine at home? We'll have to wet the baby's head.

Yes, plenty. We could open those two bottles of French champers, seeing it's a special occasion. I'll put them in the freezer when I get home.

You're a beaut, darl. See you about seven. I won't be late, have to fly first thing. I'd better show my face to our illustrious new leader, just in case he wants to discuss some policy decisions with me, he said with a grin, as he disappeared around the corner to his old office.

Hairy knocked and opened the door, and spoke briefly to the new manager, Jonathan Newman.

Can't stop Jonathan, playing squash with Geoff. I've got that flight to Tari, then Moresby, all organised for the morning. You don't need me for anything else, do you?

Before Jonathan could collect his thoughts, Hairy, with a wave and a big smile, said, See ya, then breezed out the door, jumped into his car and headed for the courts.

Whack... thud. Whack... thud. Hairy heard Geoff warming up. He cut the engine to his white Corolla and parked it next to Geoff's brown one. Hairy believed in equality when it came to company perks for management.

Jonathan had been with the company for a week and they had given him a rental car and a house. Hairy had been waiting expectantly for someone to ask for his Corolla back so they could present it to Jonathan. As a line pilot, he was not entitled to a company car and he had been quite ready to relinquish it, but he was not going to make it easy for the person who had to ask for it. Hairy knew that his salary adjustment must also be on the agenda for the next meeting, and that was going to be another interesting exercise. Most probably, they were also trying to fathom a way to reduce his voting power, though they were well aware that he had that legally secured. Oh yes, fun and games were waiting in the wings.

Geoff was a short, stocky, powerfully built bloke, trained in army aviation and ending up on choppers. He had a great personality but still managed to retain that arrogance that the army seems to instil in all their officers. Geoff camouflaged it very well, although the pride with which he was born certainly showed itself on the squash court. Hairy had a hard time with him, as they were evenly matched, but in the end he just managed to beat his opponent, 9-8, 9-6, 9-8.

Nearly had you in that last game, you bastard, Geoff said as he was soaping up in the shower.

Hairy grinned from the next door cubicle.

Yeah, if I'd still been smoking I'd never have reached that drop shot you put in the corner, let alone have won the next point.

Where will we go for a beer? Geoff asked, and added, I must schedule you for a line-check next week. Then I'll get my revenge on you, now that you're just a line pilot again. How are your 'engine failure after take-off' procedures these days?

Hairy smiled.

Mmm... let me think... yes, Mendi airstrip. Now there's a good one. Maximum load, in the hot, late afternoon and you lose an engine halfway down the strip. With all those mountains and cloud build-ups that you have to clear, you'll be wondering why on earth you chose the Nomad, with her illustrious single engine performance. Geoff teased, grinning from ear to ear.

When are you getting the ejection seats fitted? retorted Hairy.

Geoff, I need to talk to you. I was having a big think about everything on the way back from Ok Tedi this afternoon. I need views from a new perspective. Yours, I can trust, you know what I mean? Let's go to the pub for a beer. Len's got that nice, little bar out back where we can be private. I'm worried, mate. I just don't know whether I want to take them on or sit back and go along for the ride.

Hairs, if you want to take your fellow directors on, Sharon and I will be right behind you. All the pilots from our side of the partnership will support you to the hilt, Geoff added, whilst tying his shoelaces and collecting up his squash gear. You've put all the effort into getting this Company up and running, and then developing it to where it is today. It's been a fantastic accomplishment. Fuck them. You've come from a tin pot show with one aeroplane and a charter licence covering two provinces. Now it's eight provinces, two turbo-prop Nomads, a Beechcraft Baron, and an Islander, plus the Cessna 206. And don't forget the engineering section in Wewak. All that, in the space of three years.

Geoff grinned and wandered toward the door.

I'll set 'em up. See you down there.

Thanks Geoff, food for thought, see you there. Hairy finished dressing while he thought about Geoff's words. They reinforced everything he had thought about that afternoon. Just because they had banded against him, that was no reason to throw in the towel. Geoff wasn't pissing in his pocket. Hairy knew that. He also knew that if he didn't keep the momentum going, Geoff would probably leave for a better opportunity.

As for Maree, Hairy thought, she's probably just being her normal, agreeable self, supporting my idea of letting go of the management. Then again, she might be thinking of the family - 'us'. Yeah, it needs a lot of careful consideration. But is there enough time?

He had to keep control.

My-oh-my, he thought, what a bloody fight this is going to be.

Gidday, Len. Afternoon, fellas. Hairy smiled to all and sundry as he entered the bar.

How are you, Hairy? grinned Len, the barman, while the others murmured their salutations. Geoff's through the back.

Good. Thanks, Len. We might need a couple of quickies to replace the body fluids. You know what squash in the tropics does to you.

Looking toward the beer garden Hairy could see that Geoff had just about demolished his first beer already. Without a word, Hairy quickly caught up with him, downing the chilled San Mig stubbie Len thrust into his hand. It was encased in his favourite stubby holder kept behind the bar. Mere seconds later, he ordered a second round to take outside. Len had already opened them and had them ready on a tray.

Thanks, Len, you're a bottler.

Hairy paid and wheeled around to join Geoff. The hotel beer garden was a little corner of heaven. Looking out to the stunning cloud-draped mountains the small garden was bordered by crotons and palms, where an old gardener from Telefomin idly scratched at the leaves with his rake, then squatted for a minute under the mango tree, withdrawing the makings of a cigarette from his string billum. Coarse tobacco rolled dexterously in a square of yesterday's Post Courier newsprint created a cloud of acrid smoke as he dragged happily on the overlong cheroot watching the 'mastas' sitting down with their beers.

The outside furniture consisted of some rickety old timber chairs and tables with the ubiquitous faded SP Brewery umbrellas that marked every watering-hole in the country. These weren't the comfortable chairs of the Ela Beach RSL that Hairy had seen on his last trip to Moresby, painted fresh in vibrant colours, and strategically placed on the lawns next to the beach, with waiters going from table to table wearing white lap laps with police issue belts. Still and all, here in Hagen it was the closest they had to a real city beer garden. It was theirs and they loved it.

Hairy, I'm going to speak very plainly to you because you're astute enough to know exactly where I'm coming from.

Geoff had a very serious look on his face. He took a sip out of the new beer and continued, If you throw away your position as managing director, then I in turn, would have to resign as chief pilot. There is no way that I'm going to be part of any organisation that has no leadership. I doubt if Jonathan has the balls, let alone the intelligence, to compete with the other third-level airlines here. Little Hitler in Goroka will eat him alive.

Hairy, he's past his 'use by' date and there is not a pilot in this place who'll have any respect for him. If he stays, this great Company will quickly self-destruct, and by the time you start fighting to get back on top - because it will be a fight - it will be too late. Geoff had a long pull on his beer and lit another smoke.

Hairy, with his head in his hands and his lips drawn tightly together, leaned back in the chair. Christ, Geoff, what the bloody hell have I been thinking about?

He took a mouthful from his stubbie and contemplated all that Geoff had said. There was absolutely no doubt about it; he had hit the nail right on the head.

Thank you, my friend. 'Operation Fightback' has just begun. Maybe we could make Jonathan ops manager, under your supervision from the operational side, while I monitor him from the commercial? Would that work and would he buy it?

Both minds were racing now. They had to cover every loophole.

Offer it to him, then. If his pride won't allow it, he'll pack his bags and we'll have to write the expense off to experience. But I really think you'd be better off to get your own man and piss him off right now. That'd be better from your point of view ... and the Company's.

Again, I'd have to agree. But that would mean you and I would have to carry the burden in the meantime, until Mr. Right pops his head up.

Well, that's okay. We've done it quite successfully up to now. A little bit longer isn't going to make much difference. At least we'll know things are working properly.

Geoff looked over his shoulder towards the bar but Hairy stepped in.

No, my shout mate, I really appreciate your advice. I'll get the next beer but it'll have to be the last because I've got two gorgeous ladies waiting for me at home, and three kids to boot, Hairy mumbled as he ambled through the doorway.

Smiling, Geoff leaned back, hands behind his head in a sort of stretching motion. He had not been sure how Hairy was going to take his advice. He had felt duty bound to give it, regardless. Now, with Hairy's complete acceptance, he felt a little like the cat that had just cleaned up the cream.

Why are you looking so damned pleased with yourself? Hairy chimed, as he returned with the beer. Anyone would think you'd just done someone a bloody, big favour. By the way, that mongrel DTs down in Moresby has ordered his second Nomad. I wonder if he's looking at us for a possible takeover, or just wants to push us out the back door. When you consider our licensed area and fleet compatibility, our company would be a ripe cherry, Hairy said.

Oh, I forgot to tell you I had Tan in his bloody 'Twotter' following me round all day today. I didn't have a chance to double back to find out what he was offering all our clients. I will tomorrow, though, because I'll be doing most of the strips again, commented Geoff.

Yeah, we must be worrying our Little Hitler, surveying his empire from his Eagle's Nest up there in Goroka. He wouldn't be using up non-revenue hours if he had work for the Twin Otter. Did you hear, he sacked two pilots yesterday, he was screaming at them from his balcony above the parking area. I'm sure he screams so much purely because he's got a complex about his height. Anyway, he was having a go at the pilots for aborting their flight and the senior pilot stood up to him, and he sacked them both from his balcony, where everybody could hear.

Are you for real? Geoff frowned. The chief pilot would have to step in over that one.

I doubt if he would dare, with sixty pilots to choose from he would be demoted immediately, reasoned Hairy.

Have they got sixty pilots? Geoff asked. Fair dinkum."

Highland Air has a fleet of fifty six aircraft, he has to have drivers. He's even supporting localization, he has three now. Of course, that's only because he gets them at half price. You know Tan's from the Enga Province, don't you? With all the gold and copper up there, they carry a lot of political clout. Nice bloke, in all, that he is, we'll have to watch him like a hawk.

Hairy spoke with a very serious look on his face. We have our work cut out for us, Geoff. I think Little Hitler can feel us breathing down his neck and he doesn't like it. Take care, old son. Hairy thumped his stubbie on the table as he stood. I'll go and pass this on to the girls. Not sure how Maree will take it, but I think she'll be all right. She's a pretty understanding lady.

To put up with you she'd have to be, grinned Geoff, diving quickly for the one-upmanship opportunity.

Ignoring the quip, Hairy countered with I'm pleased Jo's there, she'll ease the situation. Well, I'm going, see ya.

He entered the public bar, See you, fellas. Thanks, Len. Look after my right hand man, won't you? and Hairy departed with a wave.

No doubt about that, Hairy, God bless him.

Len said it with so much sincerity anyone would have thought he was religious.

Mount Hagen has the most idyllic climate that anyone could wish for. Situated on the valley floor 1,600 metres above sea level, you can wander around all day, more than comfortable in a short sleeved cotton shirt, but thankful for a couple of blankets on the old bed at night. It is only a stone's throw south of the equator, so there is the odd heavy rainstorm in the late afternoon, and that leaves everything fresh and clean for the next day.

Hairy wound his way home along the pot-holed Highlands Highway cambered high to take the torrential tropical downpours, with rich brown gravel shoulders. He turned into his Munga Street driveway. It was a beautiful entrance—dead straight. The previous owner had planted delirium-inducing deep-red hibiscus along both sides, and pruned and trained them to form a delightful tunnel along the complete length of the drive. The prolific rainfall endowed the hibiscus with abundant, deep green foliage, and thousands upon thousands of exquisite flowers. The sodium streetlight within three metres of the entrance and the bright security lighting surrounding the house gave a warm, welcoming effect. Hairy seemed to burst from the darkened tunnel into a gravelled area sprawling beside the front steps.

The house was low-set, nestling on sloping ground and constructed of high quality materials. For Papua New Guinea, this was rare. The high turnover of the expatriate population and the general feeling of impermanence militated against such quality. The exterior boasted cream bolstered block and the joiner had left the mark of an artisan on the home, using local mahogany for the cupboards and doorways, all of it clean in grain and consistent in colour.

All the exterior doors were French with full-length panes of opaque glass, and these had been fitted with German-made deadbolts, and door locks. Hairy loved those doors. They had come from the old wing of the Cecil Hotel in Lae, and every time he looked at them he could sense the history that had passed through them. The oblong house opened out onto comfortable wide verandas on two sides, with panoramic views overlooking a large valley to the south.

Apinun Masta, Marcus murmured as he opened the rear door and retrieved Hairy's squash bag in order to sanitise its contents for the next game.

Thank you, Marcus, Hairy said with sincerity.

Marcus, a man from the coastal province of East Sepik, had been with the Richards family for four years and had come with them from Wewak when the family moved up to the Highlands. Most coastal people have a hereditary fear of the not-so-long-ago, cannibalistic highlanders. His wife and family had decided to stay behind but Marcus's loyalty would not allow him the same option. Anyway, he knew that if he needed to get back home, 'Masta Hairy' would get him there.

No sooner had Hairy turned from Marcus than two children came bounding around the corner of the house.

Dad, Dad, quick, come and see little Dominic. He's beautiful, Dad. He's just so lovely; you'll love him, Dad.

Okay, Maggie darling, ease up. We'll get to Dominic in a minute. First of all, how are my two kids? Maggie is all wrapped up with this new Halloran baby, but how's my boy?

Fine, Dad. Dominic smiles and he actually held my hand, come and see.

Andrew