Damn you Irish Water
Diary of a home bird
THE end is nigh folks. My days of dinner on the table, washing done and zero bills are numbered.
The roomies have launched a coup in the Galvin household. I feared the day would come when the novelty of having their youngest child still living at home would wear off. I’m still trying to think which one of the straws broke the proverbial camel’s back. Was it the clothes washing, the untidy room, or, dare I say it, the impending water charges (I have been known to take up a good chunk of time in the shower)?
Perhaps I hadn’t been getting the hints over the last couple of weeks. They were left with no choice but to literally spell it out for me. I came home last week to an A6-sized sign stuck to my bedroom door. (Photographic evidence supplied.) In the female roomies’ handwriting it read, ‘For Rent, previous occupant moving out’. I walked into the kitchen with the ‘advertisement’ and flashed a look at Madré who broke into a fit of laughing and questioned innocently, “What?”
“What’s this about,” I asked. “Well, you’re rarely here anyway, so we decided to put your room on the market,” she replied.
How would I adapt to the big bad world of bills? The old pay cheque no longer seen as the online shopping fund, but something that must be carefully divided into not just health insurance, car insurance, tax, etc, but also rent, heat, electricity and water charges, along with everything else. ‘Ugggh’, I shudder at the thought.
If the ‘subtle hints’ from the roomies bear fruit – ie their precious daughter flies the nest – I must admit, it’s not just the free dinners I’d miss, even though the female roomie does make a mean stew.
Seeing them grow up, brings a tear to my eye. I mean, only last year they were both dependent on me and the rest of the siblings to check the golf results online. Now they’re both checking their emails on their phones.
One evening last week, while eating said delicious stew, I got a real sense of how the whizz kids have adapted to technology. Pops was sitting down doing a crossword, while the female roomie was watching Emmerdale. The male roomie ran into a little difficulty with five down. ‘What is the name of Popeye’s arch-nemesis?’. I hadn’t a clue but tossed about a few answers. Next thing, the female roomie pipes up, ‘Bluto’. The sly yoke was googling it.
This new bit of information subsequently caused a domino effect, sending shockwaves through poor Pops’s good work.
“Well if Bluto is right, then ‘elbow’ is wrong, and if ‘elbow’ is wrong then ‘kernel’ is wrong,” said Pops. It was like watching a house of cards falling.
Through all of this, various questions from both roomies were flying at me. “Can you check those tickets online?” and “If I send you this message can you send it back to me? I don’t know how to save it.”
After these queries were tended to, the male roomie broke the brief period of silence: “Four across, what did Al Capone have on his face?”, to which the female roomie replied “his nose.” Cue a fit of laughter from the females of the house, with me nearly choking on a mouthful of stew.
So, basically, what I’m trying to say is, if the black bags do ever appear at the front door of the house, I must admit, I’d miss the craic, and I’d blame Irish Water.
> 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.