There is a lone paddock tree, a very old tree, that I stop to say hello to on my walks. He was once a tall handsome brute, you can tell. His good looks are still there. Now he groans and creaks, but despite his age, he looks remarkably well. My friend the tree would be three to four hundred years old, and he's tired. He has lost his parents, siblings, children and community. He's in pain and mourns their loss. Once he was surrounded by a colourful community of soft grasses, wildflowers, herbs, shrubs, small trees, and of course his family. Now he stands among sheep dung, fallen branches and hard compacted ground. My friend has survived, but there is no Anzac Day to commemorate his bravery  for fighting this war of degradation, the cold winds, the hard frosts, the relentless droughts and wet winters. There are no plaques, poppies or wreaths to commemorate his bravery or fallen friends and comrades. This tree has witnessed so much history and contains so much wisdom, yet we don't seek his advice.

My tall handsome brute was meant to be surrounded by his community supporting, sharing and providing nourishment and a wholesome healthcare system. Where are the birds that clean the insects eating his leaves, where are the small marsupials, and why are there so many ants? When the rain finally falls, the ground is so hard the water will find it difficult to penetrate. He weeps. His pain is our pain. I weep for my friend.

Bandicoots are our furry pest controllers. And they are very cute pest controllers indeed. They don't advertise, they don't own a van, they don't use chemicals. Yes, this pest control control business is a little hard to contact, but they do offer a free service. What's not to love. They eagerly seek out, using only their keen sense of hearing and smell, corbies and cockchafers. These grubs are the scourge of farmers, as they eat the roots of pasture grasses, and lay large areas completely bare of any vegetation. But these root eating grubs are bandicoot delights. They will feed on other insects, worms, berries and fungi, but cockchafers and corbies are their preferred delicacy.

Bandicoots are really not fussy when it comes to creating a home. They have little need for a grand homestead, preferring a modest dwelling, a bit messy in fact, such as a wood heap, a pile of bark, or just some long grass. More of a vagrants way of life. But if left alone, may stay awhile in your backyard, happy to clean you out of your lawn grubs, and be on their way. You may see them in the suburbs, or at night trudging along country lanes and hedgerows, trying to avoid attention, sleeping rough in the long grass. Just doing what Bandicoots do best, loving anything grassy and eating what lives underneath that grass.

Bandicoots are like all wonderful volunteers doing community service, no advertising, just getting on with the job of caring. Our communities show compassion with cake sales, sausage sizzles, and raffles, raising money for those in need. Our volunteers drive ambulances, man country fire brigades, care for children, the elderly, the sick, and the disabled. It makes for a very caring society and our Bandicoots are also there, quietly doing their community service without fuss, recognition or reward. A local hero.

Banksias are like a Michelin 5-star restaurant to parrots and cockatoos. These guys made a booking 12 months in advance, and have waited eagerly for this moment. Easter is the time for this fine dining opportunity, and banksia seed is the delicacy on the menu.

Banksia restaurants are the best in town, open all year 24/7, always with flowers with the sweetest nectar on offer. These restaurants are available from the sand dunes at the coast, to alpine mountain tops. But Easter is the only time for seed to be on the menu, and parrots are ready and eager for their easter chocolate hunt.

However, the table manners of parrots and cockatoos are not suitable for a 5-star Michelin dining experience. they don't want delicate portions served with artistic flair, they don't want soft background music, and they don't want to wait until everyone has their meal before they start. They treat this dining experience like schoolies week with a smash and grab attitude, squabbling and squawking, squeezing as much fun as they can out of this Easter. The rule is, absolutely no rules.

Parrot parties involve ripping the ripe seed cones from the tree, trashing the cone, chucking it on the ground, then moving onto the next cone, greedily gorging on as much seed as possible in the shortest time possible. At the end of the week the banksia forest is a mess, strewn with trashed cones, and these parrots have been transformed into vandals, high on seed. What a mess. What fun. What a party.

If you get a chance, go to a parrot party, it's a sight to behold. These guys know how to have fun.