Diary of a home bird
HAS anybody got next week’s lotto numbers by any chance? At this stage that’s looking like the only way of fixing my financial woes. The bank balance is as anaemic as a poorly fed pregnant goat.
If I were to win the EuroMillions at least then I could setup a company and hire myself.
Or perhaps go into event or project management. All I seem to have been doing the last month or two is organising a p**s up in an overpriced brewery following Mayo GAA in the capital. That, and keeping an eye on renovations at the homestead.
From biting my tongue when the female roomie asks for my opinion on questionable tile samples, to ascending the roof with the male roomie to carry out some temporary works, I’m basically a ‘cowboy builder’. As Madre looked on, through clasped fingers, I climbed the ladder under Pop’s instructions to ‘be careful’ (this coming from a man that fell down a ladder last year).
I hadn’t been up on the roof since I was a tot – I don’t know what it is, but it must be an innate thing for most 90s kids wanting to scale heights for a buzz. Once you were a few feet off the ground everything was 100 percent cooler, even if the activity was only arranging a stray cat’s funeral. Yes, I was once in charge of the repose of Blackie The Cat. It was a beautiful service.
My niece Fiadh has taken on the mantle as the pint-sized climber in the family now, and it is putting everybody in her charge on the edge of their seats. While babysitting my nieces recently I took a quick call from my brother but rang off abruptly, as I turned around and found her, all 18 months of her, standing on the dining table. I have christened her ‘Trouble’, as once you turn your back she could be setting something on fire or climbing the local telephone mast.
Recently she even had airport staff running around after her. Hitting for sunnier climes, my sister and her family were in Dublin Airport going through security when Trouble saw an opportunity for The Great Escape.
With three options available to her she took the most daring: straight through the security scanner. Her father duly followed. However, a grown man trying to run through airport security obviously set off alarm bells, and he was stopped by staff while Trouble kept going.
Once fellow travellers saw the commotion, a rolling Mexican wave of laughter ensued. After making her own way through security with my other niece Saran, my sister was met with her husband being searched and a female security guard holding the little escapee.
It’s definitely a story for Trouble’s twenty-first birthday.
Thinking about it now, perhaps I could be gainfully employed as her talent manager. I’m pretty sure she could be the next toddler Evel Knievel.
I’m pretty sure I’m not cut out for childminding, however. It’s like minding drunk people who don’t want to leave the club.
I’m off to buy a Lotto ticket.
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.