ABSTRACT
I was a teenager when my family emigrated from England in 1970. Supported passage basically provided three choices for the adventurous: Canada, a country my mother thought too cold; South Africa, where she predicted future troubles; and Australia, promoted in those days as an egalitarian paradise. It was no contest really and so we bid farewell to a large extended family and boarded an Italian ship to Australia, where my father was to work as a boilermaker for a large South Australian shipbuilding company. It was over 110˚ when we first arrived – 113˚ to be exact – an experience from which my parents never really recovered and one which ultimately influenced their move to Aotearoa New Zealand. For the rest of his life, my father saw New Zealand as the egalitarian paradise he had always imagined and my mother continues to live there happily, finding both cultural and climatic fit.
Although I would like to say that my entry into social work was a result of careful career planning and reflective decision-making, this was far from the case. I don’t think I really knew what a social worker was when my mother suggested I apply for a job in child welfare. Coming from a family of talkers, she was confident that a job based mostly around talking would be perfect for me! Somewhat uncertain about what it would involve, I applied for what was called a supernumerary position. (These were appointments that were over and above the established staffing level and were commonly available in government services during the 1970s. Supernumerary positions provided an entry into social work for people lacking formal social work qualifications.) I recall during the interview talking vaguely about helping people and, while I am sure my performance would not meet the criteria of contemporary expectations, it was enough to get through, and I so began my career in child welfare.
