Diary of a home bird
DID ya hear the one about the parents suing their 30-year-old son who refuses to move out?
The Rotondos say their son Michael is refusing to leave home despite five eviction notices. This case has gained much attention worldwide and, I may add, in my family WhatsApp group. I wonder why? I’m hoping this doesn’t set precedent and give any other roomies ideas...I’m really not ready for the eviction notice.
After feeling the heat from this case, I was anticipating an awkward conversation with the roomies, or afraid I’d interrupt them on a Skype call with the Rotundos, maybe trying to setup some sort of lobby group or union. Thankfully the roomies have not yet contacted the Rotundos in NYC, the Stauntons in Partry, the Heneghans in Tourmakeady, etc. They are doing research though. I was horrified to find an Irish Times feature placed neatly on a bedside chair with the headline screaming ‘Ireland’s boomerang kids staying home longer’. I’m five years past the acceptable age, by the way. But it’s just too damn comfy where I am. And I think they’re making it comfier. Since coming back from my travels last year they’ve renovated, and little bits here and there continue to make it more and more appealing.
There’s always something that has to be done. Pops is always dead heading some flowers or hacking a tree that needed to be ‘paired back’. Last week during the continuing long spell of sunshine, this sun worshipper found it hard to get some quiet time as was the level of ‘bits and bobs’ being done around the homestead.
I’m partial to sunbathing at the back of the house. Who isn’t? Pops even facilitated my phone charger needs by unveiling a new socket built into the outdoor patio. Genius. I warned him this was another factor that would only work against their case to evict me. While sunbathing, I heard some murmurs at the side of the house and quickly realised that a man from the local garden centre was on his way, imminently. Clutching an ‘I love Rio de Janeiro’ towel, I covered my (not fit for beach) body.
I returned to catch some rays a time later and Pops went to play golf. Thirty minutes later more murmurs at the side of the house and panic ensued. A race against time to throw on my sun dress over my bikini. This time it was Cummins Homevalue Hardware men delivering a patio set...to be used for the next six days that we have sun. Though I managed to clothe myself, I didn’t get to pause the feminist podcast that was playing aloud. Not being able to see the screen due to the sunny haze, I awkwardly pawed the phone while some English women gave off about ‘the patriarchy’ as the lads fixed the patio table.
I’d been up at 6am that morning so I went for an impromptu nap before that evening’s tag rugby battle. Just a light snooze, I didn’t bother to enlist the help of the blackout blinds. Tap tap tap...panic once more. The plumber. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I tried my best to look alive, after all, it was 4pm in the afternoon. A leak in the sink fixed and off he went.
I didn’t chance another nap, or to catch any more rays for fear of another caller. Maybe that’s the guerilla warfare the roomies are adopting?
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.