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Not without my Betty


Diary of a homebird
Ciara Galvin

PORTUGAL seems like a distant memory at this stage. Last week, after 35 degree sunshine, we were met with rolling fog as the plane landed in Knock, to much clapping (it’s a west of Ireland thing, surely) and Ryanair’s new jingle letting us all know we were on ‘another on time flight’.
While myself and the Boyf were away, along with another couple, the infamous Betty Boo was on her holidays in her own little ‘Portugal’ – Glenamaddy. She left for her temporary new home the Sunday before we left, and as the notice of her Galway sojourn was only furnished to me that morning, the goodbyes were rushed.
Loaded up with enough dog food to feed her for weeks I asked the Boyf was he sure her stay was only temporary. As I write this, there’s still no sign of her return. However, but he assures me she will be back. Just as well or I could do a Liam Neeson, threatening her minder to give her up. ‘I will look for you in Glenamaddy, I will find you in Glenamaddy, I probably won’t kill you, I’ll just give out to you’.
In anticipation of her return, myself and the Boyf took to the back garden the day after we got home armed with a yard brush and spade. Tapas and blue skies were replaced with, well, poop and scoop. The holiday was well and truly over.
Betty Boo crossed my mind many times while we were away. Anytime we walked past dogs, visited a local bar or cleaned the apartment. You might think it’s strange that cleaning would remind me of a dog but as the saying goes, ‘let the story come to ya’.
Occasionally, I can get into a cleaning frenzy. Before the female roomie retaliates, I’ll tell you that it doesn’t happen very often. Still, when it does, I have a habit of going the whole hog, bleaching bathrooms to an inch of their grout, etc.
So when it came to cleaning the apartment in Portugal on our last day, it was all hands on deck, and even though the Boyf wasn’t exactly impressed with my mopping skills, I felt the place was sparkling.
As I brought out the rubbish, I quipped to the Boyf that I hoped I managed to dispose of it correctly, ‘not like last time’.
Last time (July), after ‘spring’ cleaning the Boyf’s, I went home to tell the female roomie about all I had accomplished, to which she rightly replied, ‘And what about the state of your own room here?’.
A couple of hours later I returned to the Boyf’s and was relishing the cleanliness and enjoying the evening, until I saw Betty through the window, dragging a bottle of water across the back yard. For a minute I thought, ‘Please don’t tell me she went on one of her adventures, this time to the shops to pick up some messages’. But no, Betty hadn’t been shopping, she had been rummaging. This domestic goddess had left a full bag of rubbish outside after she couldn’t open the shed to get to the bins, and the inquisitive Boo had a right good time.
Long story short, the Marigolds had to come out again.
Still though, come home Betty, all is forgiven!

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.