To me, in the ’80s, Mullumbimby madness was a culture that came and went, a bit like those fearless little forget-me-nots that sprang up absolutely everywhere. It was a funny time, like we were all being swept along in the same warm bathwater.
Thursdays and Fridays were the grand finale of excitement, and Saturdays were peaceful. That might have had something to do with respect for the Sevenies, who were very much a part of the fabric.
Saturdays, yes – staggering into town, absent-minded, hungover, Jimmy Barnes still banging in my ears. Everyone was in the same boat, he took an hour to roll the number, nothing unusual.
I decided to head south for the day, so I put my thumb out and got a lift to the end of the golf course. I never knew the guy’s name. He had his five or six pounds of weekly meat supply on the seat, neatly wrapped in white paper. I put it on my lap for the short trip.
He was going to Wilsons Creek. I was going the other way, so I got out on the corner. Off he went.
There I was, on the corner, with his week’s supply of meat in my hands.
I stopped the next car. ‘Yeah, we know him,’ they said, and off they went.
Some days later, I saw the guy and asked if he got his meat. He looked stunned and said he’d been wondering all week how it had gotten onto his kitchen table before he got home.
He had called in for a chat with a friend on the way.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
