We survived getting lost in the bush, just, but a few months later I did something really dumb. I killed a dugite. With a broken shovel. It was slithering toward the roadhouse kitchen and I couldn't imagine what we'd do if it went inside so I grabbed a shovel head and chopped it in two. The new cook, (an aboriginal lady called Joy,) came running out and said, 'You got to bury him now, in different places or he'll come back together!' One bite and I would have died. When the police heard about it they bought us out a 'snake' gun. It did a great job turning crows into cartoon explosions of black feathers. Remind me to tell you more about the 'police runs' next time..
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