“If anyone wants a killer, come and see me after,” called the compere as we waited for the first of the afternoon’s activities to begin. “Saves ’em being taken back to Dubbo. Get yourselves a killer,” he urged. My ears did a double-take, rewinding the last few seconds. And then remembered. Welcome to the bush. Where men are men, and sheep are afraid. Or, more accurately, in the mutton-bustin’ event we were about to watch, kids ride sheep and the sheep then head for the pot. Less “kill-ers” than “kill-ees”. I took a break from the events in the ring to wander over and top up our drinks. The motherly lady on the other side of the bar looked up with an all-enveloping smile as I approached. “How’re you goin’ today?” “Good, thanks. And you?” “Aaaw…
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