This interconnected gathering of stories relates to a life as lived, within its inhabited sphere. It tells tales of rich childhood and misspent youth; of travels to unfamiliar lands and learning new ways; of beliefs and endeavors encountered along the way. It is just one account among millions - even potentially billions - that shows the diversity of being, cooked up in a melting pot of nature and nurture, to give a unique result.

Depression sometimes overcame George when he thought about the way he had meandered through life: travelling from one impulse to the next and rarely planning too much … “Nowadays, even my own children and almost every other young person I bump into, seem to forward-plan their lives,” he mused. “instead of impulse, I could have used a bit more planning too!”

George Lachlan Peters is an ordinary individual; at least that’s how he considers himself. At one stage the thought did cross his mind that he might be extra-ordinary: the new Messiah, in fact the immortal Son of God returning to Earth, growing up secretly amongst his fellow mortals, ready to lead and to live on into immortality, while his friends and relations all perished around him. Eventually he concluded that the same thought probably occurs to every other expectant person in the universe ....

A baby conceived out of wedlock, in the late 1940s and within the conservative surrounds of Yorkshire, could elicit a vitriol that any prospective mother would wish, with all her heart, to avoid. Unlike Britain, just released from war, the attitudes of British society were still constrained in a time warp.

Tracking back through those early days in Yorkshire, to a day six months before George was born, we come upon a tumultuous scene taking place in the large, stone-built residence (bought a year or so earlier to house the large and extended family). Several people are seated around a rectangular, highly polished dining table, with dad, the fifty-year-old, family patriarch, positioned at one end .....

Dottie – as she was sometimes known by family members - was a lover of music and the arts and had travelled to Scotland during the summer holidays to attend the Edinburgh Festival. She stayed with her mother’s family, leaving three-year-old George at home. During one of the fringe events she met a young, blonde Australian, wearing a tweed sportscoat, who towered over her by more than a foot.

At seven George was enjoying the by-ways of Cornwall as he walked back and forth to a tiny village school. His mother had shipped off to Australia when he was three, returning when he was five, then dashing off again a few months later. He was an independent being of sorts, excited by the world around him.

“Don’t you ever try this again you little bastard!” the father roared. “This boy is a hell of a lot younger than you. See the state he’s in. Some friend you are!” Then with one final haymaker the son slumped to the floor, blood pouring from his nose. George stood at the front door, his swaying body held aloft by the door frame, as he looked on.

George had escaped England after rifts with family and torturous schooldays. From fourteen onwards he was drinking, playing truant from school and becoming quite accomplished as a pool player. With this backdrop, he stepped aboard SS Oriana, at the tender age of sixteen, aiming - with some degree of determination - for Australia and what he hoped was a bag-full of new opportunities.

Those early years in Australia became a time of revelation and wonder for George. He made the most of them: ‘Land of opportunity’ an over-used, but markedly apt phrase. Blue skies, broad plains, brilliant horizons; a far cry from dark winters and drizzle left behind in Cornwall. We catch up with him, in the outback, on a simmering summer’s day.

Those who grow up only knowing the sanctuary of true parents often find it difficult to understand why others search frantically to find parents and family they have never known. The lucky majority fail to realise the importance of heritage; of identifying who we really are, during our miniscule moment on Earth. For those seeking the truth, nature often wins out over nurture (even though the nurture may have been impeccable). Blood it seems is thicker than any other substitutes ...

In 1984 I returned to Britain. It was more than ten years after receiving the extract of my birth certificate, telling me that I was the son of the person whom I thought was my eldest sister, and that my father was unknown. At the time, the news hit me like a bombshell; the family I thought I knew was suddenly re-formed into a new shape and I was thrown to the fringe. But slowly, the feeling of rejection (and being deceived) subsided and I became more rational, even seeing some aspects in a positive light.

It had been almost two decades since my unsuccessful attempt to find a father whom I had never met, only to discover he had departed his earthly life, just one year before I arrived at the place of his death. Dismayed and discouraged, I gave up the chase, though it was replaced to some extent, by a new search for my deceased father’s (other) son, a few years older than me and in effect, my half-brother. Did he still exist?

The dust was still coming back to earth as we scrambled from the wreckage. There was a discord of voices in panic. People lurched from the mangled, still-smoking mess of a car and hugged each other, thanking The Almighty and whoever else was in earshot, for the fortunate continuation of their lives. I had struggled, in an upside-down fashion, to release myself from the seatbelt, then crawled through the shattered glass window, to safety, bleeding and in shock, but otherwise okay.

I stared at the guy in disbelief. No one had ever said such a thing to me before. Was he winding me up? “Hold on. Did I hear you right? You are saying I’m protected in some way?” “Yes, most definitely. I was watching when you were walking around the hotel grounds yesterday,” he replied. “You have an aura which appears to surround you; I could see that quite clearly.”

“Scrap all aid! … Developing countries would be much better off without it.” I looked on from the back as this tall, bespectacled, somewhat pear-shaped man spoke out with such conviction, aided himself by a tri-coloured overhead transparency (This was before the days of PowerPoint). Large red arrows denoting money coming from Africa; smaller blue ones going towards it: right in some ways, but far too simplistic.

It was like a fast-action video game acted out in real-time: The French Connection with a faster car. I watched in horror as we zig-zagged back and forth across three lanes, powering on past a sprinkling of vehicles out for a Sunday drive. Glancing across at the speedo caused even more alarm: 140 miles per hour! Twice the limit and faster than I had ever been on four wheels!

It was a strange looking humanoid object carved from dark wood, with stretched neck and bulging eyes: E.T. for the classroom! I never quite worked out its purpose (past or present), but the kids adored it. This was a mysterious item from faraway Africa, unlike anything they had ever seen before. Was it a centuries old voodoo doll? We will never know. But it did lay unused in my attic for several years, presiding over family strife and financial disasters.