Nowhere on the Nullarbor

Doing our Dean Moriarty bit as Aussie youths back in the sixties we stopped at Nowhere on the Nullarbor and sat to eat. The waitress gave us a decade or more start: bright red lipstick and too much foundation failing to cover the skin blemishes brought on by days and nights of greasy fat in the kitchen. ‘What are youse having?’ ‘You for starters,’ Jock said and they were off on a litany of flirtation until I sulked outside at closing time and waited in the cold desert air, my stomach battling the batter and the fatty bacon no limp lettuce could make good

Jock came back looking satisfied with himself, satisfied with her shooting his mouth off until I said peevishly, ‘Zip it, will ya, mate’.

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