'It is autumn 1999 and the vigorous crashing of the metal knocker on the front door of my house in Glebe has me in a state of alarm as I leave the quiet study and run downstairs. I open the door to a dark, dishevelled figure, wild hair, lean and edgy. A gravelly, menacing voice says, ‘I’ve come to make a land claim on this property’. The grim expression dissolves as I exclaim, ‘Frank Doolan!’ He shakes my hand with a flamboyant black man’s double gesture, still tense, ready to cut and run, ready for a fight—or fun. ‘How are you?’ I ask, and he says, ‘I’m still goin’. But more important, [dramatic pause] how are you?’' (Introduction)