Angela Barnett
Writer. Wig Wearer. Speakerupperer
recent posts
- Are You A Useless Cook? Well, Punch The Air Darhling, The World Needs You.
- Jealousy Is Love And Hate At The Same Time. And It’s Totally Stink.
- If Long Term Relationships Were Explained on First Dates We Might All Be Serial Daters.
- Since When Did My Boobs Turn Into A Couple Of Envelopes?
- Darling I hope you don’t mind – we’re having shrivelled penis for dinner.
about
Author: Angela Maree Barnett
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“It’s like we’re on the run except we haven’t done anything wrong,” said the Dimple, on our first night in a cheap motel. We were running, and there was a crime –shocking murder– but it wasn’t our doing. 911 called. They left a message that an armed and dangerous man was in our forest and…
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Before we left New Zealand, a friend of my Mother’s said, ‘You’re brave taking off to America with two small children.’ I attempted to smile, then burst into tears. I didn’t feel brave. For the first time in my life, I made a travel decision based on what was best for somebody else – my…
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I love being a New Zealander, but after listening to a lift full of Auckland Grammar school girls in Hawaii, last week, I finally admitted I speak fonny. My kiwi twang –the kwang– sounds lazy, as if my tongue is allergic to vowels. My great, great English grandparents are to blame; they lost some semantics…
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“I’m not risking the lives of my wife and child… we’re not coming!” was our most dramatic rejection. We were having a party for our four-year-old and hadn’t planned on killing the guests before the treasure hunt. It’s our road in. People have slid off it before and dangled over cliffs. But not very often.…
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It’s very strange, watching your country from another hemisphere take up the evening news. Our only surreal comfort with the Christchurch disaster, was that we had our own little earthquake – 30 miles away – on the same night. Somehow it was reassuring; the long fault fingers of the Pacific Rim were stretching up to…
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“Did you know cougars pounce on hikers?” I asked the Dimple, one night in bed. I was reading Bill Bryson’s A Walk In The Woods where he claims, ‘Mountain lions (cougars), especially in northern California, have been known to snack on passing cyclists, joggers, hikers and even the odd unsuspecting person enjoying a BBQ.’ The…
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Dear ‘Dactyl (daughter). Loud. That’s what the midwife said when you first popped out. So loud, apparently, the maternity ward hadn’t heard a newborn yodel like it in months. I refused to put a label on you – so soon – however, after your brother started to say, “Girls are loud, aren’t they?” your Father…
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Dear Shaun Apparently, you can get a gun quicker than a book out of the library, in some US states. Everyone we know here – all five friends – have told us to get a handgun, for protection. After a visit at 2am from a carload of drunken rednecks (down our 8 mile windy driveway)…
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Modern day witches – Wiccans – care about the environment, recycle, grow herbs, believe in karma and only buy organic, local produce… sound familiar? Just about everyone we know could be one. After centuries of being ridiculed, burnt at the stake, banished and drowned, witches everywhere must be relieved they’re finally in vogue – because…
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Dear Susan In the interests of remaining mysterious, I may have been remiss with some facts. You’re not the only one to ask whether we live in a teepee. My expectations had been lowered to a ramshackle cabin – thanks to a game the Dimple likes to play called Wind Her Up – so I…
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Dear Tracy Broken, according to Ruth the gardener, is the state of many who first come here. ‘Camp heals people,’ she mused, alarming me. You’ve known me longer than any other friend – I don’t need fixing do I? Oh, the heels of my feet resemble dried mangos and the Dimple has a gammy knee…
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Dear Dad You made me believe I was good at mathematics and chemistry. Academically, you convinced me I could achieve anything, thank you. Great job. However, there’s one area where you failed – you didn’t tether me to a field and force me to play sport. I’m about as agile as a footstool; my arms…
Angela Barnett 