More stories

Here are two more stories for you, following on from the first two which I posted a little over a week ago. I didn’t realise that the second story last time would end up being so emotive for some of you, so will definitely concentrate on more light hearted stories this time!

3. A Story of Cooking

I think I am not too bad a cook now, but it wasn’t always the case.

As a child, my mother was a the big cook of the family. She was one of those people who could make an amazing meal out of virtually nothing.

For example, one of our favourite childhood meals was called Volcano- this involved a can of corned beef, flaked up on a dish, surrounded by mashed potato until it resembled a mountain, and then baked in the oven for 20 minutes or so. We then would fight over who got to pour the tomato ketchup down the sides as the “lava”! Quick, easy, ridiculously cheap and fun. Totally ingenious, and I keep meaning to make it now for my own kids- it’s just the corned beef that’s putting me off to be honest, maybe minced beef would be a good alternative? Hmmm…I digress! 😀

ANYWAY, with all this great cooking going on, I somehow never learned to cook until I was about ten. My first attempts were not a success.

One morning, waking early, I decided to surprise my mother with a cup of tea. Creeping downstairs, I filled the kettle and switched it on. Shifting from foot to foot on the cold kitchen floor, the kettle seemed to be taking for ever to get going. Then, as the water heated, the kettle inevitably made more and more noise. Not having used the kettle before, and being used to being in the kitchen with at least three other people and a lot of noise, I didn’t have a clue that it would automatically switch off once the water boiled. Convinced that I was going to burn the house down, I turned it off in a blind panic. Then, shakily making my first ever cup of tea, with tepid water and way too much milk, I presented my sleeping mother with this delightful treat.

To her eternal credit, she gave every appearance of pleasure and managed to choke it down, but she DID give me a lesson in basic kettle use later that day, including the valuable lesson of automatic switch off. 😀

My second disastrous experience in the kitchen came hot on the heels of the first. I was in the kitchen talking to my Mum, as I often did, while she cooked the dinner. I don’t remember what we were having, but she was planning to serve peas as an accompaniment. Keen to demonstrate my newfound kettle boiling skills, I offered to complete the cooking of the peas. My Mum, in the chaos of pre dinner, was only too pleased and rushed off to another part of the house to do something else while I “helped” her out.

Getting the peas out of the freezer, having put the kettle on, I got a pan out and put some peas in it. Then I noticed- lo and behold- that there was already water in the form of ice on the peas! Whew, no need to bother with the nasty scary kettle after all. I could just shove the peas in the pan and on the hob. Job’s a good ‘un.

Yeah- the pan was a complete write off. Another Advanced Cookery Lesson was administered by my mother on How To Boil Peas. A brave face was put on by all concerned.

After these two failings, which have been brought up regularly and with great delight by my two brothers, who apparently were born as Cordon Bleu cooks who would put Gordon Ramsay to shame, my mother taught me to cook properly, and I have never looked back! 😀

4. A Story of Worst Holidays Ever

When I was 20, just before Ian and I got together, and I was still very young and very stupid, I had a brief friendship with a man who was about ten years older than me. So young and stupid was I, that I seriously didn’t think he wanted anything more from me than friendship.

He suggested that we take a trip to Connemara on the west coast of Ireland. It is, coincidentally, one of my favourite places on earth, and frankly I would probably have agreed to go there with Jack the Ripper if he’d asked me.

My Mum and Dad were dubious about me going, but agreed to lend me Mum’s car for a few days.

The trip was a complete fiasco. My Mum always said that friendships are made or broken by going on holiday together, and she was most definitely right.

The first problem was that this guy was THE worst back seat driver. Like most people, I think that I am by far the best driver on the road, and intensely dislike people criticising me. A five hour stream of abuse from him on the way to Connemara did not amuse me. Now, to be fair to him, I probably drove like a complete maniac. I think every accident I have had over the years has slowed me down a bit, and there’s an excellent chance that I was driving too fast. The roads out west are not good, so his head was probably hitting the roof most of the way there.

We got to Clifden, the town we were using as our base, and checked into a hostel in the middle of town. How yer man managed to secure a private room for the two of us I will never know, but it did take me aback somewhat (SO stupid!!!!). Luckily, there was a bed and two bunk beds in the room, so I hastily made a point of putting my bag on the bottom bunk, which was very narrow. He looked disappointed but didn’t comment.

Going back outside, my car had developed a tyre as flat as a pancake. I started to get the spare out of the boot, whereupon he launches into this very noisy diatribe on how bad my driving was and how it was my own fault we had a flat because of the speed I’d been doing. There were a lot of passers by and everyone was looking. His little speech included the phrase “and take that look off your face!” which particularly didn’t do anything to endear him to me. He’s bloody lucky he didn’t end up with a jack in his head. The cops are pretty laid back down there, I feel sure they would have agreed that it was highly justified.

So, having watched me change the tyre with his hands on his hips, administering this little speech, we drove off and found a repair place, who confirmed that the tyre was flat because of a nail. Feeling totally vindicated, I was mutinous for the rest of the day and didn’t want to be in his company at all.

After a quick dinner in the local pub, I lied that I had a sore head and headed back to the hostel, leaving him in the pub.

Predictably, I wasn’t alone for long. I was just getting to sleep when I heard the door to the room open. Now, as young and stupid as I may have been, I don’t think I had anything on this guy. After the day we’d just had, how he can have come to the conclusion that there would be any remote possibility that I was going to have sex with him is totally beyond me. However, despite me making resolute “I am sleeping” noises, and the fact that I was facing the wall, the next thing I know, he had managed to crawl into the tiny bed behind me, STARK BOLLOCK NAKED…

Reaching around me, he grabbed one of my boobs. Abandoning all pretence at sleep, I said “What the hell are you DOING!” whereupon he huskily muttered, “Oh, come on, you know it’s what we both want!” (a classic).

Speaking very quietly, I outlined my plans for him if he did not desist. I mentioned kicking him in the balls. I certainly advised him of my intentions to scream the entire hostel down. It was all I could do not to choke him with my bare hands by this point, but luckily he managed to move to the other bed with surprising speed when I finished speaking.

We drove home the next day, in blissful comparative silence, even though I probably drove even faster in my haste to be rid of this monumental ass as quickly as possible. I practically threw him and his bags out of the car when we got back to Belfast. I remember getting back in the car and saying out loud, “Thank GOD” when he was finally gone.

We’ve never spoken again. The mere memory of the ill fated trip to Clifden still makes my blood boil, even though I have to laugh at my rather stunning naivete through the whole sorry saga. What an idiot- and I’m still not sure if it’s me or him I am saying that to!