Author Archives: Raw

The trials and tribulations … of buying extra long matches

I’m scared of fire.  I feel this is a perfectly normal fear, or at the very least a healthy one.  I have other fears/phobias which are questionable in regard to their normality but more of that another time.  At my parents’ home they have a wood burning fire and quite often I’ve had cause to light and then keep it going.  Mum seems to shows no fear with either of these two things, to the extent where I sometimes question if she could do with a dose of my worry.  I’ve found my own way around the first issue of lighting it by using extra long matches, extending the distance between myself and the flame thus easing my worries.  The second issue is quite hard to get around as gently throwing the log onto the flames runs the risk of it falling off and out of the fire if you don’t close the door soon enough, and if I have to place it in the fire I’m convinced I’m going to burn myself.  Which I’ve ended up doing, albeit on the door of the fire rather than from the flames.

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It’ssssss a mysssssstery

I’ve found local newspapers have the most fascinating little stories hidden in them.  Like this one I spotted a couple of weeks ago in The Westmorland Gazette.  Who is the woman?  What was she doing with the snake?  And why she would carry a photograph around with her of whatever snake activity took place?  Finally, who is the kind person who would go to all the trouble to alert the local newspaper about their find?  Is the photo that good?  Oooo, I love a good mystery.

You’re not my Dad

Back in ’88 my family and I went to Disney World in Florida.  To say we were excited was an understatement.

Whilst we were walking along Main Street, I stopped to tie my shoelaces whilst Mum, Dad and my sister walked ahead.  By the time I’d finished securing my laces (I’m methodical like that), I’d lost sight of them so a mild sense of panic set in.  Thankfully I caught sight of what I believed to be the back of my Dad’s head, so ran to him, deciding on the spur of the moment to jump on his back.

As the Chinese man turned around, I quickly realised this man wasn’t my Dad and looked over his shoulder to see my family watching with great amusement at the now confused man looking at the eleven year old on his back.  After that, I swiftly moved to slip-ons for the rest of the trip.

Tony

I wrote this whilst on a Dark Angels creative writing for business course.  Seriously, if you can you should get yourselves along to one of their courses as I had such an amazing time on both the foundation and advanced sessions.  At the end of the week we had to prepare a personal piece to read out to the group.  I realised that I love being a storyteller and as such decided to tell everyone about one of the many blind dates I’ve been on.  I thought I’d have a go at reading it out on here just to mix things up a bit.  I’ve not changed his name as he couldn’t be anything else but Tony.

Channelling MacGyver

Only one of these things will open a broken door

I like to think of myself as a resourceful girl.  After all, I’m ready should I be kidnapped or find myself in danger.  But I had to draw on all my other resources the other night when I found myself trapped in my bedroom.  It was all down to a dodgy handle.  Immediately I said, admittedly out loud to myself as I have a tendency to whilst in a stressful situation, “Don’t panic.”  I tried the handle again, it just turned round and round.  “OK, don’t panic.”  I had my phone, but realised the fact I’d spent the last hour playing Angry Birds had serious depleted the battery.  Bugger.  I remembered the charger was sat on the table … in my living room.  Immediately I fired off a text to my sister to see if she was up as a plan immediately formed in my head.  She could ask my Dad to ring first thing in the morning to talk me through how I could get out of this situation.  Dads always know what to do.  Apart from that one time when Dad didn’t think to leave a note when he’d used superglue on a hair slide of mine.  I picked it up and when I couldn’t separate my fingers, I walked into the kitchen and said, “Dad, when you fixed this for me did you use superglue?”  “Yes, why?”  “Leave a note Dad, ALWAYS leave a note,” as I showed him I was finally able to do the Vulcan sign from Star Trek, potentially permanently.

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Dog the Bounty Hunter

You may recall a reference to Dog the Bounty Hunter in one of my other posts.  I felt it would be useful giving you the background as to why Dog is relevant when it comes to blind dates and safety in general.

I watch a fair bit of telly, and it always annoys me that when someone is held against their will or something terrible is about to happen, and they have a window of opportunity with someone who could help, they don’t try and get a distress message, albeit a hidden one, out.*

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Sam

Below is an e-mail I wrote before going on a blind date.  I enjoyed writing this more than I did the actual date, which I think says a lot.  I’ve changed my date’s name and a few other bits, but everything else is as it was.  To be fair, early on I had my reservations, not least because he began most texts with the word, “Ha.”  Seriously, I’m not joking.  It made no sense,  “Ha.  How are you this morning?”  It was like a random form of text Tourettes.  And he used phrases such as, “hunk of hubba hubba lovin.” Don’t worry, I informed ‘Sam’ that he should stop using such references to himself if he wanted to get much further in his love life.  Oh, and I think we’ll need a whole other post to explain the Dog the Bounty Hunter reference.

“Welcome ladies to this select group. You are my Chosen Ones. You are effectively my “Don’t forget to record Dog The Bounty Hunter” ones. (Ask Jenny to fill you in if you’ve not heard of this amazing strategy.)

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Right here

Home sweet home

I grew up in the Middle East, Qatar to be precise.  When you look at it on the map, it’s the thumb to Saudi Arabia’s palm/hand.  Quite how I managed to retain my northern accent, having left the Lakes at nine years old, is a mystery.  During the university summer holidays I would leave the bright lights of Preston to go back to Qatar in order to gain some work experience and, more importantly, money.  One summer I was going to cover for a friend of my Mum’s, and John, the boss, said he’d like to meet me beforehand for coffee at a local hotel.  The interview went well and John very kindly offered me a lift back home.

We were nattering away, and as we took a right on the round-a-bout near our compound I said, “It’s just right here.”

Nothing.  No inclination he’d heard.  The right turn was fast approaching.

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A psychic tale

Psychic Angela wasn't there when I went to see her. I think she knew I was coming.

I’m known for my fondness of psychics.  It’s not something I do on a regular basis, although a concerned friend told me the other week about an old lady who spent her life savings on visiting psychics as a “cautionary tale.”

I once went to see a well-known TV psychic on her road tour.  I’m fascinated at how it all works, and although I try and be as sceptical as the next person, not least when spirits quite often only give their first names and even then there’s some ambiguity (“Joe … Joseph … perhaps John …”), I often leave convinced that there was no jiggery pokery going on.  That’s a phrase you don’t hear enough of nowadays.

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Ice cream, you scream

This happened when I was having a conversation with my sister after we’d been and bought some ice cream.  She often accuses me of not listening to her, but on this instance we were both talking before listening.

Raw’s sister : “Oh my word, did you not see those two awful blokes in there?”

Raw : “What flavour is your ice cream?”

Raw’s sister : “Smelt like peasants.”

Incidentally whenever we see any pheasants and my sister is around, we always point them out and say, “Look, there’s some peasants,” as she once asked my Uncle if he’d shot many “peasants” on a shooting trip.  (Not in the least something I’m a fan of, but at the time he was moving in those sorts of circles, shall we say.)

Tea for two

For as long as I remember my Nana Chapman had this little silver teapot.  When she passed away, I asked my Mum if I could have it, along with the little tea strainer she used – it was loose leaf all the way with Nan.  Although it leaks if you pour too quickly and is looking a little dented, I always feel closer to Nan when I use it.

The other day a name of a little poem popped into my head and I decided to see where I’d go with it.  Here’s the end result.

Tea for two

Funnily enough, you never called it “a brew.”

The kettle boiled, the china ready,

A tray to keep everything steady.

A spoon of tea for me and thee,

The little teapot couldn’t stretch to three.

You’d always use loose-leaf PG Tips,

Nothing else would pass our lips.

Leave it be a minute or two,

Any less or longer simply wouldn’t do.

Carefully poured so as not to drip,

We didn’t want to miss even one last sip.

Out in the garden or in the by the fire,

Of your company I never did tire.

Now I’m only making tea for one,

Which, quite frankly, isn’t that much fun.

But when I’m preparing it just as you showed me,

(Warming the teapot is what’s really the key)

It’s like you’re here by my side,

Almost as though you’re my personal tea-making guide.

Making tea for one will just have to do.

But please know, I’d much rather be making tea for us two.