It’s all about timing
Diary of a home bird
AT this stage the tree is begging to be decommissioned and the thoughts of eating another turkey-and-stuffing sandwich could induce some somersaults in the tummy.
Christmas was a relatively quite affair in the Galvin household this year, and with a quieter Christmas at the old homestead there was no need for panic rations of bread. The two loaves sufficed this year.
Ever since I was small, the buzz of opening presents has been one incomparable to any other feeling, even just seeing a loved one open a present you put thought into, or let’s be honest, bought last minute, is a joy for me to witness.
This year the usual protocol was followed for Secret Santa, names were mixed in a hat in late November, and the female roomie texted on the details of who each of my siblings and I had to buy for. But like every year, within 30 minutes everyone knew who was buying for them. Surprises were never really our forte, with hints being dropped here and their, via WhatsApp messages and emails.
When dropping the odd hint here and there, subtlety is not my strongest point. I usually tell Sis what I’m lusting over, and she in turn relays the message to the Boyf. See, it would pain me to think of the Boyf having to traipse around from shop to shop in search of the ultimate gift, when he could just be pointed in the right direction.
This year though, I decided to cut out the middle man (Sis) and drop (bomb) some hints on the Boyf at a family event in November. During celebratory drinks after my Godchild’s Christening in Dublin, I pointed out (numerous times) that my watch had stopped working, in front of the Boyf. An hour or so later (due to said broken watch my time keeping is sketchy) he knew every detail of the much-lusted after Michael Kors timepiece.
With all the hints now firmly harpooned in his direction, the ball was in his court. Still, admittedly doubting his organisational skills, I put in place Plan B: A present that could easily be purchased by sis and shipped to the Boyf in time for Christmas Day. A nice new pair of runners.
In the run up to Christmas myself and the Sis tried on the same pair of runners, but with my bank balance looking about as healthy as a stag party after a week in Benidorm, I declined to purchase and she bought a pair for herself.
The following week, when I arrived home to have dinner with the Boyf, I noticed a box in my room. Excitement got the better of me, and I trundled into the kitchen to open it.
Thinking he got the hint from Sis, you can imagine my disappoint when discovering it was a pair of squeaky shoes belonging to the Boyf. Instead of my shiny new trainers there lay his apparent ‘faulty’ shoes which the manufacturer had returned to sender (me) after they were deemed to be in perfect condition. On that bombshell my mother noted, ‘Santa mustn’t be coming to you this year’. Oh, how the family joked as I explained by excitement only to find a pair of mens’ brogues.
And Christmas morning? Well, let’s just say I’ll be on time for everything this year. As my brother remarked while looking at my wrist, ‘Sure of course he got the hint, I think the whole of Dundrum got the hint that night’.
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.