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MUSINGS Jokers in the pack

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Joker

Jokers in the pack


Diary of a home bird
Ciara Galvin

THE tables really have turned at the old homestead. Once upon a time I was the one jumping from behind doorways to scare the poor roomies senseless, but they’re now getting their own back. And I’ll admit, my old ticker ain’t what it used to be.
Lately, the female roomie senses when I’m opening our front door and, more often than not, stands there ready to playfully attack, wielding a sweeping brush or some other type of domestic paraphernalia I never quite recognise.
Recently, I found myself walking in circles around the house looking for my car keys. I checked everywhere, under the bed, in my makeup bag, in the couch and, as a last resort, under the sink (you never know).
I ended up finding them in the front door and reassured myself it was just a momentary lapse of concentration.
Now armed with keys, I was ready to leave the house, so I went back to my room to fetch my handbag. ‘Wait a minute, I’m sure I left it in here’, I thought. I began to question my own sanity.
Fear of the madre thinking her youngest child was losing it meant I refrained from highlighting my dilemma, and the search began all over again. After checking the hot press for the third time, I began to smell a rat. (Not in the hot press, I assure you.)
I called out to the female roomie, ‘Mam, did you see my handbag anywhere?’. Heading towards the utility room, I rounded a corner and there she was, standing beside the washing machine looking guilty. I didn’t need to go as far as water boarding: She broke, pointing to a washing basket beside the fridge in the corner.
So after oh, only 20 minutes of thinking I had gone mad, I finally left the house equipped with all my accoutrements.
On another occasion the roomies convinced my eldest brother that our neighbour was Louis Copeland’s cousin, because this man used to repair clothing for everyone in the area. He bought it, hook, line and thimble.
But where would the roomies leave it? They both come from a long line of pranksters, with my grandfather once planning to replace my aunt’s golf clubs with chimney sweep brushes.
He didn’t go ahead with the plan in the end. Imagine the looks my aunt would have got on the first tee. Or the time my aunt replaced all the books in my cousin’s schoolbag with sods of turf. There were a few blushes when the teacher rang looking for an explanation.
Only three months ago madre was the subject of a prank by the Boyf. As I was in Mexico, and uncontactable, I gave him the responsibility of keeping my family up to date about my whereabouts. On April Fool’s Day he couldn’t resist and rang from an unknown number claiming to be an Aer Lingus official wanting to make contact with me. Before he could let her know I had ‘won a first class ticket home’, mother was anxiously asking what was wrong.
Needless to say, she was not impressed.
Moral of the story, trust no one, especially not your family.

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.