A few days ago, the Nobel Peace prize was awarded to Nihon Hidankyo, the organisation of A-bomb survivors who have worked tirelessly to promote an end to nuclear weapons. It is hard to think of worthier recipients of the award, not only because of the awful struggle they have been through, but also the threat that hangs over the heads of every living thing on the planet.

When I was living in Japan, it was common to find items in the newspapers about hibakusha, the name given to categories of people affected by the explosions in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. There was a struggle amongst these people for recognition, medical assistance and a fair go. Many were discriminated against because of ignorance about the effects of radiation sickness (was it contagious?) or the perceived potential for birth defects, which were not above a national average, in any event.

I once wrote about one of my adult Japanese English students, Mr Honda. Sent by his parents to Hiroshima to escape the bombing of Tokyo, he narrowly missed being a victim of the atomic bomb. He had gone over the mountain a few days earlier to stay with cousins, a short journey that saved his life.

I pray for all the remaining victims, the hibakusha, that they will be better understood, accepted and indeed, applauded for this wonderful award. I pray for those who have died. For the person, now gone, whose shadow remained on the concrete step on that day. For the tattered uniforms and lunchboxes and those who leapt into the river in agony. I pray for you all.

News that King Charles III will tour Australia soon brought back memories from my childhood, when my mother would dutifully fill the car with her children and head off to meet the Queen.

On one occasion, Her Majesty was due to visit the Spastic Centre of NSW (now, Cerebral Palsy Alliance), which was located in the nearby suburb of Allambie Heights. We lined up along the drive leading into the main building ( I don't remember any Union Jacks in hand) and waited while the Monarch met with the good people inside. Then in a flash she was off, a hand waving by a passenger window in the back of a Rolls Royce. It did seem exciting to us back then.

It is hard to say how the republican issue will play out in coming decades. The steam seems to have gone out of the debate - the world being as unstable as it is - more Australians are siding with what they know and what works best. The antics of royals such as Andrew and Harry ( who should surely have heeded the lessons provided by Edward VIII) have not helped the royal cause and Australia's population is changing in any event.

No more the Anglo-Celtic supermajority, though its influence is still overwhelming. Things can flip very quickly, though in the antipodes, we are not unaccustomed to watching the paint dry, whilst the grass grows.

That day in 1970.

Heading out this morning for a trip to Penrith, my turned key in the car ignition was greeted by inactivity. It might be more accurate to say that there was something, the muffled sound of a enfeebled asthmatic, perhaps beneath the bonnet, and a tell-tale flashing of lights on the dash. Dead battery!.

I can't complain because the current battery is the factory-install and nearing 6 years of age, which I am told is the maximum to be expected. Because we have colder winters in the Mountains, batteries are under greater pressure to perform, so going the distance is close to a miracle.

Ann and JJ have gone into town in search of food (Thai Town being the ground zero). I am up to date with all my recordings for 2RPH programs, having completed the Christmas edition of Writers from the Vault yesterday. I guess that means I am really a long way ahead but finding time to record, and the correct conditions for recording, is becoming more difficult.

But what have I to complain about? It is a privilege to do the work that I do, it always has been, and I am greatly blessed in being still able to do it.

We had the changeover to daylight saving two days ago, giving us darker mornings and lighter evenings. I used to love this period as a kid because we could play outside after dinner, the light not fading until about 8pm. There were no screens in sight as we kicked balls, rode bikes or had a game of impromptu cricket in the park at the end of the street.

This is not a criticism of technology per se, but the overuse of devices to the exclusion of other healthier pursuits. I faced similar criticism viz a viz television and playing records, but really these are hardly comparable. As I said. we were outside playing most of the time. Entertainments inside took a long second place.

This morning a group of birds were noisily protesting something at the front to the garden. It's a very different sound to that of ordinary bird chatter, more a pointed, squawky, 'get outta here' variety. Sure enough, my wife said that she saw a small possum being assailed by birds as it navigated some trees in the garden.

It is very unusual for an Australian possum to be out and about so late and I found it hunching on a tree branch. I will keep an eye on it because the poor thing may be sick or disoriented, in which case a call to WIRES will be in order. But I do hope that it can make its way home.

Forgiveness is never an easy thing. No matter what the offence, how great or little, pride of one sort or another drives us to hold on to slights and grudges. In some cases, the offending party is entirely unaware of what they have done, or alleged to have done. But there is no doubt that unforgiveness leads to bitterness and resentment, an emotional boomerang that hurts the one who is unforgiving. We all struggle with this, me no less than anyone else. I think that forgiveness needs to be a daily practice.

In the following poem, Welsh poet RS Thomas 'forgives' his parents for the circumstances of his upbringing. But he also realises that it is not their fault - they did their best and were not responsible for the nature of the 'drab town' nor the deleterious effects that being raised there had on his mind. It was just where they lived and they did their best. Perhaps there is even a tinge of guilt, on the poet's part, for the way he feels, in the final verse.

Sorry

Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.

It was not the bone buckled;
You gave me enough food
To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight
Kept me bent, as I grew tall.

It was not your fault.
What should have gone on,
Arrow aimed from a tried bow
At a tried target, has turned back,
Wounding itself
With questions you had not asked.

The Servant-Girl at Emmaus

'Stop that clatter woman'

The gruff voice intoned,

'There's guests to serve'

She returned to her work,

Retrieved the fallen tray,

Tried to hide her trembling hands,

'Just do as I say.'

But she was lost, truly

Dared not shift her head,

Only what remained in view-

A pitcher, pestle, cup,

Scraps of discarded bread,

And heedless of the cost,

She never looked behind, instead,

Rallied every sinew to busyness,

And sought out things to do, thought,

'How can I serve those men again?'

To look upon a face she knew.

Just three days, was it?

Was it three?

In Jerusalem,

Dead on a tree?

Straining to hear his voice,

Straining, in lamp light,

Frozen, heart-burning,

She began again to turn.

'The Servant-Girl at Emmaus'  Valazquez c.1620

The first day of October and the weather seems to be paying attention. It's sunny and quite warm. In the background is a sea of cicada sound, their brief above-ground existence this all-encompassing symphony.

Today I'm off to the radio station in Glebe to host Features Forum, our daily selection of commentary and such like from the four Sydney daily newspapers. The format tends to get a little bogged down in politics and economics related material, somewhat hard to digest if it fills the whole 90 minutes. I try to encourage a wider range to include reviews and some lighter pieces to soften the serious journalism that is inevitably our lot, but it is not always possible.

On Saturday last I bought one of Pat's fabulous boiled fruit cakes from the Red Cross stall at Hazelbrook. It's pot-luck when they will next be there - usually every three months - so I am delighted when I do stumble across their cheery tables outside the pharmacy. Even happier when I see that there are still some cakes left, because Pat's fare sells quickly.

The Red Cross ladies are getting older and older. I wonder who will fill their shoes and generous spirits when that time comes?