Long ago when drink cans couldn’t be crushed by hand, phone calls outside your house had to be via a phone booth, if you could find one (though Superman always found one whenever he needed one) and, when car cassette tapes blaring Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon got chewed before the album finished, driving to distant places across this piece of earth called Australia was always fascinating. Bouncing along an unforgiving corrugated/gutted road in a Beetle from my historical stable of battered VWDubs I was desperate for go juice as I had just flicked the floor fuel switch onto reserve (this Beetle was a poverty model, no gauge). Rough roads guzzle petrol. Reckon I just made it to Mt Magnet (WA) on the residue vapour around the carbie. A few old buildings and mechanic’s shed from time long ago qualified it as a town. A single petrol bowser, tall and topped with a clear glass flagon marked with gallon levels and a 44 gallon drum beside it stood outside the mechanic’s shed as I pulled up. As a well weathered man of many years wearing braces to hold his trousers up emerged from the shed I turned to my Beetle - old car, old man clothing, old bowser, yep, I’m living in history here - felt surreal. He hand pumped the petrol from the 44 gallon drum up into the glass flagon till full and then released the fuel by gravity through a hose into the Beetle’s tank. “Where ya headin’ fella.? His words sounded old time as he looked doubtful about my Beetle. “Wiluna”. “Good luck.” He said as he walked back to his shed.