Skip to content
Landing page show after 5 seconds.

Bedding in


Diary of a Home Bird
Ciara Galvin

IT’S official, I’m a ‘stay-at-home daughter’. The job hunt still continues, but for now I’m working on ‘personal projects’ (I figure it sounds fancy and just vague enough for people to accept).
I’m not quite sure of where to position my current ‘role’ on the CV, but I’m thinking of telling employers I’m a carer for the roomies. Granted they are able-bodied and would rather me live independently than under their feet, but hey, needs must.
The roomies have been great. I mean, it’s not the easiest task to put up with a fully grown child while you’re trying to enjoy your retirement. We’re the three best friends that anyone could have, according to myself anyway, and I’ve assured them I’ll fly the nest this year after a few false starts.
However, I have a sneaking suspicion that the roomies are trying to smoke me out, making the house less comfortable so that I cave early. Case in point: My bed collapsed in the run up to Christmas. In the middle of the night I was awoken to lats popping off the base of my bed. Now I did put on a few pounds, having been on holidays and indulged for the month of December, but surely it wasn’t my weight?
The following night I got into bed tentatively. This can prove difficult after a night out, but none the less I managed to get into place without breaking the bed any further.
The next couple of days I did my best Goldilocks, telling the roomies I’d just move to another bed for the time being. Pops was having none of it, and insisted on attempting to fix the bed, the morning of my friend’s wedding, conveniently. Fresh from getting hair and makeup done, I walked into my room to be met with the male roomie and my brother cable tying the lats onto the bed base. MacGyver ain’t got nothing on these lads. With just under an hour until the bride was set to walk down the aisle I was hopping around the doorway urging them to finish their ‘handy work’.
Needless to say, the quick fix didn’t last too long. In fact, it lasted two days, and then I was back to being afraid to turn in my sleep in case the frame collapsed.
Pops assured me that he’d do a better job the next time, and even committed to replacing the broken frame … albeit with an old frame stored in the shed. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I told him myself and my brother would take control of the replacement operation – after all, he was preparing for knee replacement surgery and so should be taking it easy.
Four minutes later, there was a clatter and a bang from my room, and I found the roomies attempting to dismantle said broken frame. After some tense words I rolled up the sleeves and put the Allen key to work, much to the amusement of the male roomie who wanted to take a photo for posterity.
With a lot of pivoting and ‘to me, to you’ we got the old frame out and the new one in. Pops sat on the bed, beaming with a job well done, only to be greeted with an audible creaking of wood.
‘It’s bedding in’, he said. I just hope it holds ’til this stay-at-home daughter finds alternative employment, and accommodation.

> 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.