One of the more peculiar delights of working in newspapers is that you develop a particular affection for an old linoleum floor. You don't see them around too much anymore, but do this job for a little while and you learn that there's gold in them thar hills.
I remember the first time it happened; I was working as a very inexperienced and out-of-my-depth reporter in Glen Innes in the Northern Tablelands. Early one morning, a local man trundled through the front door with an armload of yellowing papers in a plastic bag. He had been renovating and came across a stash of old magazines under the floor. They were mostly editions of Australian Women's Weekly, if I remember rightly, from around the 1950s or '60s, filled with these quaint hand-sketched advertisements.
