Hey man, now you're really living

I’VE never been the sort to run shrieking from bees while flapping my arms, but still I’m quite glad this glass is between us. Rupert at the House of Honey in WA’s Swan Valley won his first award for beekeeping aged eight after pestering the local World War I veteran/bee enthusiast to teach him everything he knew.

My abridged knowledge is limited to what Rupert tells me after I examine some clunky paraphernalia*. If you puff smoke at a bee, it’ll think the hive is on fire and hastily slurp up lots of honey to brace itself for a long trip. Its abdomen swells up to the point that it can’t sting you – and nor can it be arsed, now. And that’s when you make off with its loot.

Keeper? Probably not, but you never know.

* Don’t quote me.

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.