According to the orthodox principles of private international law, as applied within Australia during the twentieth century, the different States are essentially to be regarded as foreign entities. At common law, the courts of one State will generally apply the statutory laws of another State to resolve a civil law dispute if directed to do so by the common law choice of law rules, but not otherwise. Yet federation was a eustatic event in the evolution of the Australian legal system, albeit that the sea change has taken some time to flow through to many areas.

Australian States are not foreign nations but sub-entities within one nation established and maintained by the Australian Constitution. The law to be applied when there is some competition between Australian legal rules cannot appropriately be dictated just by the common law. That raises constitutional questions by its very nature.

A central question in family property law in Australia is how to place a value on the homemaker contribution in comparison with other kinds of contribution. The problem is especially difficult where the property largely consists of assets owned before marriage, acquired by inheritance, or received after separation. This article explores the relevance of the homemaker contribution to property division both in marriages and de facto relationships, challenging the popular assumption that living together per se justifies significant wealth transfers. It is argued that parenthood provides the most important justification for property alteration, and that withdrawal from workforce participation due to the care of children or other family members is the primary concern in evaluating the homemaker contribution. The article then goes on to explore what the homemaker contribution meant when the Family Law Act 1975 (Cth) (‘the Family Law Act’) was enacted, and how that conceptual coherence has become lost over time. There are now two different approaches which have emerged to the quantification of the homemaker contribution in the context of pre-marital property, inheritances, damages awards and property acquired after separation. These approaches are irreconcilable. The approach which is now finding favour in the Full Court of the Family Court is one which makes it impossible for the Court to explain how it has reached its decision on the quantification of the parties' proportionate shares. Furthermore, it is founded on an interpretation of the homemaker contribution that Parliament never intended and has not since authorised. This raises important questions about the legitimacy of the Court's approach to property division under s 79 of the Family Law Act. The article concludes by offering a new interpretation of the role which the homemaker contribution should play in the division of property on relationship breakdown which is consistent with the overall framework of s 79. It involves two distinct considerations of the homemaker contribution. The first is to examine how homemaker contributions should be rewarded. The second is to consider how they should be compensated.

The separation of judicial power from executive and legislative power has long been recognised as an important measure for guaranteeing individual liberty and for safeguarding against tyranny. As Winterton has noted, '[d]ividing governmental power is the oldest device for restraining it, and thereby protecting liberty'. However, it has also been widely recognised, particularly in recent years, that by entrenching the separation of federal judicial power, Chapter III of the Australian Constitution may offer individual guarantees beyond the arbitrary exercise of executive or legislative power. Consideration of exactly what these guarantees may include has significantly contributed to the recent interest in Chapter III of the Constitution. As one commentator proclaimed in 2001, the move of Chapter III to centre stage has been 'one of the defining features of the last decade of Australian constitutional law'. This trend has raised many questions relating to the nature of judicial power and judicial independence, and the extent to which it does, and can, protect individual liberties.

The executive power of the Commonwealth largely has been neglected, both by the High Court and by commentators, receiving scant attention in comparison with the Commonwealth's legislative and judicial powers. The High Court has examined executive power on fewer than 10 occasions – principally three cases in the Whitlam era: Barton v Commonwealth, the AAP Case and Johnson v Kent – and, most recently, in the Bicentennial Authority Act Case in 1988. (The power has, of course, also arisen in several Federal Court cases, most notably the Tampa Case in 2001.) The relative neglect of this power is reflected in constitutional commentary, for which High Court cases represent primary 'authority'. The Commonwealth's legislative powers have, of course, received detailed examination in every major text since Quick and Garran in 1901. But, while the first monograph on Commonwealth judicial power appeared as early as 1904, almost 80 years were to elapse before publication of a book devoted to the executive power of the Commonwealth.

Our argument in this paper is that the evidentiary practices and procedures that have been developed by the Australian Refugee Review Tribunal are operating at a routinely low standard. Such practices contribute to decisions that are manifestly unfair and potentially wrong in law. A recent working paper from the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees ('the UNHCR') notes that evidentiary questions have been 'largely ignored in the academic literature.' Our conclusions are drawn from our detailed study of more than 300 refugee tribunal decisions made in Canada and Australia in response to asylum claims brought by lesbians and gay men. Our overall frame of inquiry in this study considers how the respective tribunals grapple with the issue of identity, the complex cluster of dilemmas around the public/private divide, the inability of many decision-makers to imagine the 'other' who stands before them in these claims, and the way this area of law encodes and reflects homophobic stereotyping.

In 1888 the social wing of the Salvation Army in Britain had begun an ambitious program for social reform and spiritual revival focusing on the disciplining and retraining of the unemployed. City workshops in London gave unemployed workmen board and lodgings in return for eight hours work a day. Efficiency, deportment and cleanliness were rewarded by increases in food rations and eventually men were given a cash allowance. Attached to the workshops was a labour bureau which would put men in touch with potential employers. In 1905 the Liberal Magazine suggested that the Army be given a government contract to deal with the unemployed and, four years later, the Minority Report of the Poor Law Commission recommended that public authorities work in conjunction with religious organisations in training and reforming the recalcitrant unemployed.

As is well known, the High Court held in Re Wakim; Ex parte McNally that federal courts can only exercise the judicial power of the Commonwealth, and cannot exercise State judicial power. In this article I ask whether the Court would ever take a similar approach to Chapter II of the Constitution, and hold that the Commonwealth executive can only exercise the executive power of the Commonwealth, and not State executive power. If it did, it would probably follow that the executive power of the Commonwealth could only be exercised by the Commonwealth executive, and not by a State executive. Obviously, these twin conclusions would have major implications for existing Commonwealth–State cooperative legislative schemes.

I should stress immediately that I do not think that this is the preferable view. However, for reasons that I explain in Part 2 below, there is an undercurrent in recent decisions that could be taken to suggest that the Commonwealth executive government is limited to performing functions within the scope of Commonwealth legislative power, and cannot be given additional functions.

Probably the most basic contemporary controversy over the interpretation of the Australian Constitution is that between the methodologies of originalism (or intentionalism) and progressivism. According to the first, the fundamental task of the Courts (and especially the High Court) usually is regarded as being to interpret the Constitution so as to give effect to the intentions of those who framed it at the great Conventions of the 1890s, commonly referred to as 'the Founding Fathers' or (as here) 'the Founders'. Progressivists, on the other hand, believe that a search for historical intention is at best incidental in the process of constitutional interpretation, and that the Court should construe the Constitution so as to bring it into accord with modern needs and exigencies. Between the two sides in this fiercely contested debate stretches a vast chasm both of theoretical approach and rhetoric. A third approach, literalism, despite a hallowed history in Australian constitutional law and its routine deployment in virtually all important cases concerning federal legislative power, today largely is overshadowed in the minds of constitutional lawyers by the fascinations of its two rivals.

What is the influence of the Australian Constitution ('Constitution') on the common law of Australia? In Lange v Australian Broadcasting Corporation, a unanimous High Court stated:

Applying this principle, Lange developed the common law of defamation consistently with the implied freedom of political communication. Subsequently, in John Pfeiffer Pty Ltd v Rogerson, the High Court held that the common law of choice of law in tort 'should be developed to take into account various matters arising from the Australian constitutional text and structure.'

There has been a vigorous debate both judicially and academically about the correct approach to constitutional interpretation. An aspect of that debate has involved the role of assumptions in informing our interpretation of the Constitution. I have argued elsewhere that ‘some assumptions form part of the fabric upon which the written words of the Constitution are superimposed … where the assumption is integral to a proper understanding of the structure and text of the Constitution, it can be both used and applied in constitutional interpretation.’

The ‘executive power of the Commonwealth’ is conferred by s 61 of the Commonwealth Constitution. Section 61 provides that ‘the executive power of the Commonwealth is vested in the Queen and is exercisable by the Governor-General’. Neither that section nor any other informs us as to what ‘the executive power’ is. Nor does the structure of the Commonwealth Constitution provide much of a hint of it.

The principle that the legislature can enact laws which bind the executive is a familiar one. The prerogative can be abrogated or abolished by legislation and the decisions of the executive made subject to administrative review.

More interesting, however, is the relationship within the federation between the legislature of one polity and the executive of another. To what extent can the laws of one polity bind the executive of another, or abrogate or abolish its prerogatives?

The High Court, over the last century, has had a very difficult time in answering these questions. Fundamental though they be to our governmental system, there has never been a clear and consistent principle established to provide ready answers to them. After the centenary of federation, one would think we would understand how the polities within that federation are intended to interact, but we do not.

Imagine this scenario. A court composed of an even number of judges is deciding the constitutionality of national legislation critical to the efficient administration of justice in a federal state. In argument, the chief law officers of all representative governments ask that the legislation be upheld as it was reached through a lengthy negotiated compromise of all the parties. By virtue of an equal split of opinion between the six judges hearing the case, a legislative 'sleight of hand' is triggered and the scheme is found to be constitutional. Twelve months on, the same court agrees to reconsider its previous decision. Things are generally unchanged, the same arguments are presented. The matter, however, is heard by a differently-composed, odd-numbered bench. If ever the combined desire of all governments was that a court should heed the ancient maxim 'stare decisis et non quieta movere–stand by the thing decided and do not disturb the calm'–it would be now. Instead, a majority finds that the same scheme is unconstitutional; it therefore collapses.

Over the last 25 years, governments of all persuasions in western democracies have increasingly resorted to contract as a means of carrying out governmental tasks and achieving policy outcomes. The use of contract by government is not a new phenomenon but, in more recent times, the increasing use of contract in areas that were traditionally the province of direct government action has been a marked feature of public administration. This movement has spawned a vast literature covering many disciplines and has generated new theories about public administration. One of the difficult issues to resolve in connection with this phenomenon is the sometimes awkward mixture of a private institution – contract – to achieve public purposes.

This paper is one of a group of papers on the theme of the interaction between the government's executive power and legislation. This paper is about contract and the executive power. Combining these together, it is appropriate to discuss the interaction between legislation and the use by government of the executive power to make contracts.