Setting out from Fredericton, New Brunswick, bound for Ontario during the winter of 1983-'84, I was driving a diesel-fuelled 1980 Volkswagen Rabbit, a vehicle best described as a diesel engine mounted in an orange crate. Domestic diesel cars were rare in Canada back then, especially in the Maritime provinces, and I usually had to line up for fuel with the delivery trucks and 18-wheelers at the *big* island.

On the Trans-Canada Highway, halfway between Fredsville and Woodstock, I stopped at an Irving station to tank up -- my car, as usual, looking like a Chihuahua between Great Danes. That aspect of my business done, I headed in to the diner for a late breakfast. At the big round table by the window (the only table, in fact), I sat down between the truckers with my single fried egg and McCain's hash browns. Slurping their coffee and shovelling toast and bacon into their maws, they levelled an assessing glare at me.

After a prolonged silence broken only by the champing of large jaws, the biggest, hairiest of the lot swallowed and said, "Hey honey; what are ya haulin' today?"