Bartley’s passion grew and he ‘‘picked up a few more over the years’’ and now has a bit over 20.

His favourite is a bike his father-in-law used to ride from Macedon to Woodend during his youth when he was an apprentice carpenter.

Asked what he loves about them he points to bicycles evoking a sense of childhood.

‘‘There’s sort of a romance to old bikes. You think of the heyday of just ordinary people riding around on pushbikes in the ’20s, ’30s, ’50s, before cars, the romance of history.’’

When pressed about his ‘‘hobby’’ Bartley concedes most collectors are a little odd, and he registers with that.

‘‘The bikes, in some people’s eyes, they’re just old rubbish, especially because they’re not restored at all.

‘‘But I like them. I like that old pattern of age, of use. If I worked on them and got them going I would never restore any so it was all brand new paint and all that. They’d just lose their value to me.’’

Pat Giroud is disappointed — and it’s easy to understand why. The iconic Australian brand of matches, Redheads, has just released a new cover design.

It looks nothing like those of the years gone by. Bland and uninspiring, it lacks the typical striking character of the flame-haired woman who has adorned its boxes for 64 years.

Although owned by British company Bryant and May until the early 1980s, Redheads were made at a factory in Cremorne, near Richmond.

But the company which introduced the safety match has since joined the ever-expanding list of celebrated Australians to move offshore.

It was the ‘red head’ of these matches, which could be ignited only when struck against the specially painted edge of the box that gave them their name.

From the moment you set foot in the couple’s Werribee South kitchen, your eyes are immediately drawn to the large, distinctive Redheads dispenser perched on high above her stove.

From vintage match cover advertising on the walls to the old wooden boxes adorned with Bryant and May images, it’s just the start.

Pat and Les, her husband of nearly 60 years, are life members of the Australian Match Cover Collectors Society.

Les has been the society’s president for the past 25 years and both are life members.

This is more than just a hobby. “It’s taken over our lives,” Pat concedes. ‘‘I’ve been a member of the society for 50 years, but I started collecting a few years before, probably about 1959.

“In those days, I was collecting cereal cards and stamps, but one day a picture on a matchbox caught my eyes and it’s just gone on from there.”

Although the group’s numbers have dwindled over the years, the passion shared by collectors burns as brightly as ever.

With the eagerness of a mother showing off her newborn child, Pat opens one of the binder folders stacked high in a bookcase.

Each contains page after page of labels, old and new.

She turns over the pages and meticulously explains the story behind the labels, each delicately protected by a thin layer of plastic – it’s like stepping back in time.

For the Girouds, the fascinating history of matchbox covers from Australia and around the world, holds as much significance as family photo albums.

There are covers from Sweden, England, Japan, Norway, Denmark, Russia, the United States, with designs including animals, fish, views of the world, city crests, national flags, flowers and zodiac signs.

Pat regularly swaps with collectors from around the world.

“I still get the same feeling when I see one I don’t have or haven’t seen before. It’s that sense of excitement.”

But what we have seen so far is only the start.

We walk out to a granny flat and an astonishing and mesmerising sight confronts us.

It’s like standing at the entrance of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

In the middle of the room sits a glass display case jam-packed with matchbox covers, cigar boxes and cigarette packets.

Higher up are rows of commemorative beer and soft drink cans, while the walls are covered with yet more covers, posters and other collectables.

There are ones with photos of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Dog on the Tuckerbox, Melbourne Cup finishes from the 1930s, football teams and fixtures, Melbourne’s beloved trams, Australian towns – it’s a feast for the eyes.

Some of the boxes still have matches inside and just by looking at them, Les can precisely tell you their age and the story behind each.

In the drawers below the display case are more covers, all meticulously arranged.

All up, the couple estimate they have more than 500,000 covers.

However, one burning question remains unanswered.

Does either of them smoke?

“Les smoked for a while, but hasn’t for 40 years,’’ Pat says. ‘‘I’ve never smoked, and neither have most of the members of our society.”

When Michael Maloney was a kid he spent much of his spare time playing with toy soldiers. And then the Beatles came to Australia and everything was forever changed.

‘‘We all watched that on TV,’’ recalls Maloney. ‘‘The pandemonium and Beatlemania. I liked their songs and thought they were good. So at about age 12 I started listening more to the radio.’’

Maloney would then hear a song by Manfred Mann called Do Wah Diddy Diddy, a body-shaking tune that struck a chord and coincided with him becoming a teenager.’’

It started him on the path to collecting records, which became his lifelong passion.

In the beginning he mowed lawns to pay for them. A single usually cost a dollar.

‘‘I went into a shop and he had a Manfred Mann LP called Man Made. I had a listen to a bit of it and thought, Oh, this would be good to have. But of course it was $5.25 and I only got a dollar for cutting lawns.

‘‘He said, ‘It might go. But if you like you can put a deposit on it’. So I actually laybyed my first LP. So every time I mowed a lawn I’d ride down to the shop and pay a bit off.’’

Maloney says that early on he didn’t realise he would become as ‘‘obsessive’’ about records as he has.

‘‘The records, even the cheap records, you’d find somewhere for 25 cents. I’d just keep buying them.

‘‘So I realised this would be the love of my life. I had such a passion for it. Even ’64, ’65, ’66, by then I knew there was no going back. The music to me was just terrific.’’

Maloney, a public servant for 28 years, runs the Essendon Record & CD Fair twice a year.

Asked whether he sees collecting as an addiction he says no, distancing himself from people who must have everything.

‘‘People can become addicted,’’ he says.

‘‘I would say I have just a very slight obsession with records, but I’m not a completist. A completist is someone who has to have everything, the German copy, the worldwide copies, articles, magazines, books, the works. I’m more interested in getting a copy of the music as long as I can hear it. I’ve kept control of it.’’

Maloney has hundred and hundreds of records in his collection but still counts Manfred Mann as his favourite artist, even after all these years.

He’s got pretty much everything he wants. But as with all collectors, he says ‘‘there’s always something out there that you didn’t know about’’.