Born in 1940

If you were born in 1940, you came into an Australia that was still finding its stride — a young country of dusty towns, corner milk bars, and a deep, unspoken loyalty to Britain that was about to be tested like never before. Menzies was the Prime Minister and the war in Europe already meant rationing whispers and anxious conversations at the counter of the corner shop. The wireless in the kitchen was the heart of every home, families gathered round every evening for serials and news from overseas.

Kids played backyard cricket until the light failed, and on Saturday afternoons the football oval was the centre of the universe, whether you followed Carlton or St George or the local team in muddy guernseys. You'd head down to the milk bar for a threepenny milkshake and the bloke behind the counter knew your name and your dad's name. The smell of eucalyptus drifted in through every open window on summer nights, the ceiling fan wobbling overhead, and life felt both close and spacious at once.

The big news in every household was whether the boys would be called up — Australia had already committed troops to the Middle East, and the sense that something enormous was coming hung over the backyard barbecue and the pub front bar alike. But the mango tree was fruiting, the cricket was on the radio, and for now, this particular Saturday afternoon belonged entirely to you.