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Spill the beans


Diary of a home bird
Ciara Galvin

THE ROOMIES escaped to the sun recently, and as a little bargaining tool to get me to drop them to the airport Pops gave me his car for ten days. Seems pretty fair.
The night before lift off I did the usual: checked them in (despite Madre asking me to do so a month in advance) and checked their carry-on luggage for liquid quantities, knives and flammables … well, you never know.
I negotiated the departure time for Ireland West Airport Knock down to 8.30am, the final offer as far as Pops was concerned. And boy were they eager – as the clock struck 8.35am they were standing outside awaiting pickup. If the neighbours saw, they might have thought that the roomies had finally got fed up of me and rather than waiting for me move out, they decided to move out themselves. No such luck.
Near the airport, Pops suggested I drop them outside the parking barriers, for ‘convenience’.
I explained that I’d manage to bring them to the actual entrance of the airport but told him I wouldn’t be stopping the car, they’d have to hop out on the move. A little joke to highlight the fact that Pops had his hand on the seatbelt ready to hop, a kilometre away.
That evening it was time to get some supplies. Off I popped looking like Ballinrobe’s newest ‘Soccer Mom’ in my jeep. Shower gel, soup, chicken and bread, not exactly ingredients Jamie Oliver would be proud of.
Exiting the supermarket the panic ensued. The car key. Where is the car key? Like many women I know, I tend to search the handbag with my hands and not my eyes. I compare the spectacle to looking at someone pulling a lamb.
No sign. I had to resort to plonking down the handbag in the middle of the car park. Noticing the commotion, a friendly Good Samaritan stopped and offered his assistance. While thumbing through the bag I realised that the newly purchased soup had, delightfully, spilled in my bag. My Michael Kors now looked like someone had vomited in it.
To add salt to the wound, the liquid caused an envelop full of coins to fall apart, resulting in a sea of spicy shrapnel. And still no sign of the keys among all the Mexican beans and soupy handbag contents.
I returned inside with the Good Samaritan. As he enquired at the tills, I retraced my steps, getting funny looks as I felt the shelves of perishables with great interest.
After a lightbulb moment, literally, I went to the lightbulb section, where I had been perusing the offerings minutes earlier but couldn’t commit, as I feared I wouldn’t get the right one.
And there it was, one lone key atop a crate of dog food under the bulbs.
I ran to the helpful man and gave him the good news, and we made our exit. As I hopped into the car, the Good Samaritan helped one last time and reminded me the rest of my shopping was left on the roof.
Thankfully, that was the end of the drama for the week, and before the roomies returned I even achieved a first: I made Madre’s famous stew. I always assumed one must reach a certain age threshold before being able to attempt it. Perhaps 30 is that mark.
I sent a pic to the roomies. Madre was impressed. Whatever will I attempt next? A Sunday roast? Starting a pension fund? Officially moving out?

In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a thirty-something year old living with her parents.