Diary of a homebird
TWO weeks into The Big Move into the Big Bad World, and nothing much has changed.
In fact, the roomies (they’ll always be my roomies), are seeing more of me now that I’ve moved out.
Getting used to the new house has meant that necessities like drying clothes (haven’t assembled a clothes line yet) are difficult and require a visit to the homestead.
Just days after The Move, the male roomie caught me breaking into the back garden. In my defence it was early morning, I didn’t want to wake them, and there was ‘great drying out’.
I thought I’d just sneak around the gate with my basket of washing, quickly peg them to the line and by the time the roomies noticed none of the clothes were theirs, the clothes would be at least half dry.
I got the fright of my life when the male roomie opened the door. ‘Well little pet?’ – Cue me looking like a guilty dog that had ripped through a priceless chaise longue.
I began rambling about a clothes line and how I would be back after work to collect the items of clothing and he simply replied, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ That’s what I love about the roomies, as much as you get in their way and test them, they still accede to the fact you’re their offspring.
You (not me) will be glad to hear that issues I often encountered while living at home still remain.
After a long day’s work last week, the male roomie caught me on the hop and asked me to ‘type up a few things’ for him. An hour and a half later, I was losing the will to live. An apparent paper jam was pushing me over the edge as I attempted to print the document on the PC that sounds like it’s launching a space shuttle.
Though the male roomie wanted to reimburse me for my time, and patience, I advised him that the transaction would be on a quid pro quo understanding. All the while thinking ‘He’ll assemble the clothes line!’.
In terms of getting used to ‘managing’ the new homestead, I’m lacking some basic skills, including Rule No 1 for Being a Human: being able to light a fire. Apparently, holding a lighter against a lump of timber isn’t the most efficient way of getting a fire going. In my defence, while living at home we never had a fire. In college, I waited for someone to come home to light it.
Turning on the oven also threw up some obstacles. While attempting to roast a chicken – yes, go me (I didn’t even ring a family member for advice) – I was accidentally grilling and cooking the chicken at the same time and also managed to change the time on the oven’s clock by six hours.
What was produced was rather dehydrated, but I was still proud of my efforts.
ICA bootcamp here I come.
In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old trying to get used to living away from her parents.