MUSINGS Goldilocks never had these problems

Goldilocks never had these problems


Diary of a home bird
Ciara Galvin

Gone are the days when as a child, wandering into your friend’s houses was common practice. Nobody had a key to the house, you’d stroll in the back door when the dying sun would render that evening’s game of tip the can finished.
But with everybody becoming more worried about burglaries these days, getting into a house seems tougher than gaining access to Fort Knox.
And I have experienced this problem first hand, with varying cases of forgotten keys  resulting in me taking refuge in the car, or even worse, waking the roomies.
Returning to the homestead from a sun holiday last year, in the early hours of the morning I realised I was locked out. The roomies always have the place sealed tighter than a parcel full of Tayto on its way to Australia. Ditching my suitcase in the driveway I went to the back of the house in the hope that the previous night’s lockdown hadn’t been so thorough. 
With lights coming in the driveway I froze, God forbid someone would think I was robbing the place. Approaching a lonely looking suitcase left at the front door, our local newsagent must have thought there was trouble in paradise and that my male roomie, Pops, had been given his P45 in the form of a packed suitcase. I can confirm that is not the case. Thirty-six years and still going strong!
Long story short, access was gained thanks to a tired looking Pops.
In a slight role reversal, one fateful September night, after a day sampling the delights of The Larches Bar in Finney, I made my way home. Being the good daughter that I am, I followed strict instructions, ‘always lock the door before you go to bed’. However, it turned out my roomies weren’t home yet.
Perhaps having consumed too much Dreamy Sleepy Nighty Snoozy Snooze that day, I failed to answer the 16 missed calls on my phone and slept through the constant knocking on my bedroom window, leaving my male roomie with no other option.
Let’s just say, the next day there was an unfamiliar breeze in the hall, and the view through the stained-glass panel in the front door had changed colour.
It could have been worse I guess. ‘How?’, I hear you ask. Well a situation a friend found herself in beats those stories hands down.
Returning home to her student house-share from a night out on a cold winter’s evening, the person (who shall remain nameless) sought solace in hopping into her onesie. For want of a better description, a onesie is a baby grow for adults.  Still not content with the temperature, she cranked up the radiator ensuring a snug night’s sleep would be had.
Fast forward to the following morning, with a mouth like Mahatma Ghandi’s sandal she immediately opened the window for air and ran downstairs for re-hydration. However, in a rush she failed to take the latch off her bedroom door. Bang, and my poor friend was locked out of her room, in an empty house … in a onesie.
In desperation, she ran to the neighbours’ in search of a ladder. Yes, it gets worse. The neighbours happened to be redecorating, but the friendly builders kindly supplied her with a ladder.
Going to the back garden she shakily climbed the ladder up to the open window, still in her onesie, and got back into the house a little worse for wear.
Things to think about in future. One, never assume you are the last one in the door at night, for there’s life in the old roomies yet. Two, when going to bed, choose your night attire wisely, you never know what might happen.

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.