MUSINGS Free House

The free house


Diary of a home bird
Ciara Galvin

Níl aon tinteΡn mar do thinteΡn feín. The Irish proverb maintains there is no fireside like your own fireside. Hmmm. I wonder if this can still hold water for a 24 year old, whose fireside isn’t even her own, but that of her parents, or ‘the roommates’ as I like to call them.
There’s a lot to be said for having the dinner magically appear on the table in the evenings. And that fairy in the utility who makes sure you have clean socks every week is a definite plus.
However, as appreciative of these things as I am, I must admit that I did not think that at 24, I would still be living with ‘the rents’.
The plan was simple, college degree, then a masters, then natural progression would ultimately result in me officially becoming a fully qualified Grownup. Alas, I am still partial to the odd hot water bottle left in my bed on a Saturday night by my thoughtful male ‘roomie’.
With both roomies gone away on a sun holiday last week, I assumed I’d exercise the right to do what I liked. In theory one would think house parties would be on the agenda? Nay nay, at 24, this Grownup with L Plates had duties. Among them, ‘Make sure the curtains are closed’ and above all ‘Make sure to leave the bin out for collection’.
In our house the penalty for forgetting bin collection day is comparable to that of shoplifting in a Middle Eastern country. The penalty for leaving the immersion on is too gruesome to reveal.
The week started well, curtains were closed and naked flames were dealt with, without the need for adult supervision. Being thoughtful, my female roomie texted on Monday to remind me of the bin collection … which would happen on Friday. Yes, four days away.
Midweek, and all was well, save for the ‘gone-off’ smell. Every time a plate was put in the dishwasher, memories of the kitchen I shared with four other students in Corrib Village circa 2006 came flooding back. Still, there had been no major disasters.
However, the day before bin-collection day, the mystery of the completed chore came to pass.
Pulling in the driveway last Thursday evening I noticed the bin was left at the head of the gate, all ready for collection.
“But how was it left out?” I wondered “Had it been left out for days without me noticing?
As I turned the key in the door with apprehension I prepared myself to be met with some sort of do-gooder burglar. You know the type, puts out your bin, then breaks into your house and preheats the oven for dinner.
No one.
Even more spookily, when I returned to the house on Friday evening, the emptied bin had been returned to its home at the back door. A bit of me hoped the burglar would have my bed sheets turned down too…
Being left to my own devices highlighted many things. The roomies took the laundry fairy with them to Lanzarote. A dishwasher must be put on at least once in five days to prevent a colony of mould that would make Sir Alexander Fleming proud. And kind burglars save you the earful you might get from returning holidayers. (Never did solve that mystery.)

This is the first in a series of fortnightly columns by Ciara Galvin on the trials and tribulations of a twentysomething adult still living at home with her parents.