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Soon after I landed in the federal press gallery in 1989 as a wet-behind-the-ears political correspondent, a call came from the prime minister’s office.

“Hawkie would like to see you,” said a voice.

I grabbed a notebook and, in a lather of anticipation, hurried down labyrinthine corridors of the giant new Parliament House.

Was the prime minister of Australia about to deliver me a scoop?

Bob Hawke sat enthroned in a vast office, its walls panelled in the rich wood of a single Huon pine rescued from a flooded Tasmanian valley. He was smoking…

Read the full article at SMH.COM.AU