… the two blokes behind you in the security queue at the airport are both over six feet tall, clad head to toe in worn but well-pressed Wrangler denim (one with a big set of bulls’ horns embroidered on the back of his shirt), accessorised by proper John Wayne boots with Cuban heels, and serious Stetson hats. Or maybe Akubras: I am really not au fait with cattle country fashions. Real, honest-t0-god cowboys.
On the other hand, I can hardly talk. I am dressed head to toe in khaki like Steve Irwin the crocodile hunter, with a huge backpack on my back, I have more red crosses on my clothing than you could shake a stick at, topped off by a wide-brimmed Red Cross hat in bright red. Wish I had a bit of lippy or a wand of mascara to hand so I could feel a bit more ladylike.
Main human-interest story on the news this morning was a home in flood-deluged Rockhampton which was literally surrounded by dozens of snakes. I ran for cover.