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MUSINGS A fairy tale drive-through wedding?

Cola bottles
All that glitters is not diamond-encrusted gold.

A fairy tale drive-through wedding?

Diary of a homebird
Ciara Galvin

As the realisation of the fact that the biggest day of the year was nearly over, and as my male roomie (pops) attempted to cling-film the majority of the fridge’s Christmassy contents, I found my female roomie asking my three-month-old niece what she (my mother) will do when my niece announces she’s engaged. I thought to myself, number one, ‘she’s three months old’ and two, ‘why isn’t she asking me?’.
In sheer surprise I asked why she had never questioned what she would do if I got myself some bling, and yes, as a 24 year old, still living at home I deserved the response I got. “You, getting married? Sure, we’ll never get rid of you.” Touché madré, touché.
Although she was probably right, a recent mix-up of words from ‘the boyf’ could have had my mother going to the nearest DIY shop looking to redecorate my room and have the male roomie drawing up the dowry.
Hitting for the big smoke for an Irish Rugby game late last year, and discussing the weekend of retail therapy and line-outs ahead, The Boyf suggested we ‘go to Appleby’s for a look’.
Registering what was said I quickly reminded him that the horse fair ‘isn’t on this time of year’. For once, growing up in a house full of men stood to me. The advice of ‘always use humour to avoid an awkward situation’ rang in my ears.
Alas, I should have guessed he was more into a pack of onion rings than a diamond ring. Yes friends, our snacks and supplies were dwindling, and nearing Dublin my attentive boyfriend thought it might be a good idea to restock. In the upcoming service station. Applegreens.
Taking the plunge, and opting for a bag of fizzy cola bottles, we made our way to Dublin for the weekend.
I spent the few days perusing ankle boots, while he analysed ankle taps, and we said we’d forget all about his ‘little mix-up’ on the journey up. Oops!
Glad we left the ‘in sickness and in health’ for another day, perhaps for a romantic trip to Kinnegad, or even Gort, I returned to the homestead that Sunday evening happy in the knowledge that my room hadn’t been turned into an art studio, or a putting green, and that my male roomie had held off swapping me for a herd of Belgian Blues.
On the bright side, the Christmas hysteria is officially over, and I’m very happy with my €100 fuel voucher. And they say romance is dead.

In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old still living with her parents.