My recent excursion to Toowoomba Dump not only exposed me to the different cultural practices and customs of the Toowoombonian peoples, but also catapaulted me back to my early childhood. All it took was the discovery of an LP record entitled 'the delightful nana mouskouri'. I was instantly transported back to my early years when, to unwind after a long day spent toiling in my father's carrot fields, I would don my long string of wooden beads and dance, dance, dance away to Nana Mouskouri, my rock idol. For a moment then in those grim years of survival in New Zealand's bleak south island, I WAS Nana Mouskouri. Maybe I still am.