Baby’s day out
Diary of a home bird
FOR many people going to Dublin, or the Big Shmoke as it’s affectionately known by many, can be stressful – finding money for tolls down the seat, dealing with motorway lanes and navigating your way around the country’s capital can have your head in a tizzy.
And for the roomies shortly before Christmas, the trip to Dublin to visit my sister and her two-week-old daughter provided enough drama to fill a Christmas Day episode of Corrie.
The morning they headed off was comparable to nomads getting ready to move camp. Bags lined the hallway, pops even got the car washed (he couldn’t have the jackeens thinking his car was looking grubby) and mother even made a stew. Her thinking behind it was ‘sure you wouldn’t know what sorta meat you’d get up there’, to which I thought, ‘It’s Dublin Mam, not outer Mongolia’.
So off they went after oh, three hours of packing the car and talking about the drive ahead. Not hearing a word via the tom-tom drum as dad calls it (text), I assumed they had reached their destination safe and sound and I settled in for a night of actually having control over the TV remote.
The following morning, I was awoken by what I thought was a lawnmower. I crept into the kitchen in darkness to investigate. Nearing the man cave (the male roomie’s study), the noise got louder. And there it was, the bloody paper shredder churning away, and it red hot. Feeling very thankful for my cat-like senses – well no actually, it was probably on for most of the night without me hearing it – I decided to send the roomies an early-morning text.
“Dear roomies, you will be glad to know that your youngest child is safe and well and your estate is intact, despite DAD leaving on the shredder, which could have gone on fire during the night.”
I expected an apologetic reply, however, the female roomie informed me that the car had nearly gone on fire the previous day on the M50, and a shredder was the least of their worries.
Speaking to my sister later that day I got a rundown of the events. In the middle lane on the busy motorway, the engine went in the male roomie’s car. As smoke billowed from both ends of the car, which was laden with Christmas presents and the all-important stew, the roomies deliberated their next move. But having seen them on the M50 CCTV, a recovery truck came to the rescue and even organised to drop the roomies near my sister’s house.
In nomadic fashion, they transported the contents of the car to the tow truck (stew and all) and organised for my sister and her newborn Saran to come to their rescue.
In a complete role reversal (the roomies’ sole purpose of going to Dublin was to mind their new granddaughter), Saran was now part of the rescue effort, and on her first proper day out and all.
Returning the following day by train, the mood wasn’t exactly upbeat. In hindsight, it probably didn’t help matters that we suggested the roomies buy their new granddaughter a high-vis jacket and toy truck for Christmas.
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.