Train track and trace
Diary of a homebird
The last time the roomies decided to go on holidays and leave me like Macaulay Culkin [enter sympathy here], there was the curious case of ‘Who left out the refuse bins?’. After an admittedly less-than-thorough investigation, the very kind and helpful do-gooder was not identified. The same mystery helper was out in force this time ‘the rents’ headed off for sunnier climes. Hey, I’m not complaining!
So, the week went off without a hitch. Nearly.
On the Saturday-evening, on the train home from a trip to Dublin, I was the annoying tech-savvy girl, switching between iPad and iPhone for fear I’d have to make human contact. However, doing my good deed for the day, I did help an older lady off the train at Roscommon train station, bags and all.
I continued on to my final destination feeling like the ultimate good Samaritan. At Claremorris, after thoroughly ensuring I had my iPad safely stowed in my Mary Poppins-esque bag, I hopped off the train. Doubting myself on the platform, I quickly rummaged through my bag again. iPad? Check. Uneaten cereal bar? Check. Kitchen sink? Check. iPhone? … iPHONE?…
Like Bruce Willis deciding whether to cut the blue or the red wire, I debated whether to jump back on the train, thinking ‘But sure, who the hell will collect me at Manulla junction?’.
Of course I held onto the false hope that my phone was lurking in a secret pocket. It wasn’t.
Seconds before meltdown, an example of true Irish helpfulness materialised in the form of a kind station attendant, who set about rescuing my phone, despite his clocking out time having passed. Much like a scene from a conspiracy-theory film, tense phone calls between the train and the office ensued, “Hello John, I’ve a girleen here who left her phone on the train.” Okay, so maybe it wasn’t exactly like a Hollywood blockbuster.
Retaining some appearance of being responsible, I recalled my seat number and passed it on to the poor man running up and down the train looking for a ‘phone that looks like a tape’ (my phone case resembles a cassette tape).
After giving the station the only contact number I could think of (the boyf’s, of course), and after being assured the phone would be sent to Claremorris the following morning, I headed for the bright lights of Baíle an Roba.
Arriving at the boyf’s house, I considered not mentioning the phone saga at all, to keep up the façade of the responsible adult. Oh wait, that couldn’t happen, because my Mammy already did the honours.
The helpful man on the train decided to go into my contacts list, ring Madre in sunny Lanzarote and keep her updated about her daughter’s goings-ons. In turn, the female roomie had called the boyf to ensure everything was okay.
Eventually letting them know I was safe and sound, her reply text said it all.
“We leave you for one week. Maybe the roomies should write the next instalment of the column.”
The roomies’ reprisal? Sorry Mam and Dad, not a chance.
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.