Author: Angela Maree Barnett

  • Dear Son. I see you go up to strangers and say ‘a pool fell on my head’ and they look at you sideways. I know what you mean. A droplet of water fell from the tree and landed with a plop on your head didn’t it? I know your every move and watch you try…

  • Dear Justine. The Virgo in you wouldn’t like the distance required – one hour over a dusty, windy road – to get fresh supplies; I know how you are about expiry dates. Fortunately, the Gemini in me likes to dabble in the-day-after-the-deadline to get my kicks. Plus I know if I get sick there will…

  • Dear Olivia Remember when we were in Zambia and became obsessed with helping the street kids? We felt guilty about our safe, warm, upbringings in lovely houses. Guilt, I’ve always thought, has been a driving force behind philanthropic behaviour. Rich cats shed cash to charities and relieve themselves of a few kilos of greedy guilt.…

  • Dear Steph. I was relieved to read you’re studying other women to figure out whether they look older or younger than you. I’m doing it too. It must be a turning 40 thing as we never used to care how old we looked – except when we wanted to get into clubs at 16. It’s…

  • Dear Carmel My favourite children’s book at the moment is Piggety Wiggety Jiggety Jig by Diana Neild. Terrible title, but great rhyme, and there is a line at the beginning about, ‘His Mum very proudly looked after their nine (piglets) and would finish the day with a small glass of wine.’ Every time I read…

  • Dear bro. We might be in California, the most plastic of all states but Mendocino County is full of happy, healthy hippies: wrinkles smile everywhere, living off the grid is normal, the organic supermarket is the same size as the big chain one and salons offer Bio-Energetic Sensitivity & Enzyme Therapy Massage. It’s even legal…

  • Dear Mum. We’ve shifted to a magical paradise. A beautiful river with deep mermaid swimming holes twists through our home, there’s a wooden playground, swing bridge, ducks, flying fox and apple orchard. We’re in Mother Nature’s private garden but I suspect she’s having a good chuckle watching me deal with the critters. Surly black vultures…

  • Dear Ax Hey you. I am at Camp America, just like you thought. Except extract the rich kids and input ghetto kids in your imagination. These children come from tough worlds; one girl was sent home because of bullying and was picked up in her father’s SUV that had just been nailed with 18 bullet…

  • Dear Milo. I think we’ve shifted to your idea of heaven. A genuine steam train comes through camp every single day and we can get on it by flagging it down with a special train wave. It puffs for fifteen minutes up the tracks to a place called North Spur, where there’s a BBQ lunch…

  • Dear Tina. If our husbands want us to stick around, then radically changing what they do every few years is one way to keep us keen. Your chap has become a movie actor, larking with Ray Winstone and doing fight scenes with Temuera Morrison. That’s turned you on. Mine has become a member of the…

  • Dear Melissa. You know I will always blame you when I’m feeling challenged by the Dimple. You introduced us. He’s winding me up, dropping arresting bombs about camp – now that we’re on the road and there’s No Going Back. At our farewell family dinner in Auckland, he said, ‘Angela will have to drive around…