Ruminations and recipes from a small kitchen in a big city.


The truck.

At 10 o’clock the truck arrived to pick up the desk. The driver got down. He was small and old and grey. He wore a cap that was too big and it made him look like an old ferret.

He introduced himself as Pat, opened the back door of the truck, pressed a button underneath, and the motorised tray whirred to the ground. Then he leapt up onto the back of the truck and came out with a trolley. “It’s heavy,” I said, referring to the desk. “Not a problem!” he grinned. He still had some teeth.

Later, after getting the desk aboard, he said he’d been driving trucks up and down highway 31 for sixty years. Sixty years? Now he just did it for fun, driving his truck to Melbourne once a week from Pyalong to do volunteer pick-ups and deliveries for the op shop. He told me he had just turned eighty.

An eighty-year-old who drives halfway across the state and juggles wardrobes and Danish director’s desks for fun?

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