It's like a snakey nunchucks.
LIKE any English, I am obsessed with stumbling across a snake in the wild. Everyone in Castlemaine has nonchalant tales of doing so (when they can tear themselves away from recounting the various ways you can slay rabbits), but I’m yet to see one of the slippery customers.
At Melbourne Zoo, I am smuggled ‘backstage’ by friend Lou and settle for a hold of this wee red wriggler, which is smooth, oily and immediately tries to get in my dress (insert Wog Boy-style joke here). It’s not big enough to recall the phallic rearing-cobra nightmares of my childhood, but its devious forays around my waist (this serpent clearly has ambitions to be a belt) scare me off after 30 seconds regardless.
Keeper? Yeah, I’ll work my way up to the serious bastards.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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