Skip to content
Landing page show after 5 seconds.

MUSINGS Flying the coop



Flying the nest

Flying the coop

Diary of a home bird
CIara Galvin

ALL good things must come to an end, including living with your parents. That’s right, I’m shipping out. Officially flying the nest. Granted I’m not flying very far – approximately a half mile from the homestead – but hey, it’s still a pretty big move.
Myself and the boyf have made the big decision to officially move in together, which means it’s probably only a matter of time until my old room is turned into an indoor putting green.
They say moving house is one of the most stressful things you will do in your life, and I agree. (However, I do wonder whether these people have ever tried to teach a parent how to tax their car online.) The roomies helped to relieve the stress over the last two weeks, though, by rolling up their sleeves and helping to clean the new abode.
I can’t tell if this was a kind gesture or they were just really enthusiastic about me moving, but anyway, I happily accepted their offers of help.
Along with a myriad of cleaning products plucked from the stash she has built up over the years (one can never have enough Pledge), the female roomie also brought my childhood teddy bear. Yes folks, the first thing to be moved into the house was my dear teddy that my brother bought me when I was little. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I am still four years old at heart.
The male roomie made sure to give the house the once over, quizzing myself and the boyf about various features in the kitchen, where the sink was going etc. ‘What’s this thing, a towel rail is it?’ ‘No dad, a spice rack.’
Moving in was by no means a smooth process. Whatever could go wrong did go wrong, and yours truly played her part in all the mishaps.
Before I’d even properly moved into the house, I managed to flood it. Yes, we’re talking water pouring from the ceiling. Immediately I knew it was my fault, but like a bold child I kept quiet and hoped it wasn’t.
After tiles were ripped from the wall to address the leak, it turns out my bathroom cleaning earlier that day had resulted in ‘an accumulation’ of water. With nowhere to go, the water decided to make a grand entrance through a light fixing. It was an impressive feat, even by my level of clumsiness.
The following day, the main task was getting the television set up. We didn’t have so much as a spoon moved into the house but the TV had to be sorted. Boys and their toys, eh? So that Saturday saw me visiting the local electrical shop on numerous occasions asking for scart leads and connectors with funny names.
So now it’s all about learning the ropes of running a house. I’ve already learned that I’m useless at lighting a fire. (Note to self, don’t attempt to light a big piece of timber to get one started.) The boyf has suggested I may have to go to an Irish Countrywomen’s Association bootcamp, except instead of butter making and the likes I’d be looking to know how to put on a clothes wash.
Don’t worry, the trials and tribulations of myself and the roomies will still be splashed on these pages, because, well, because the roomies will still demand help with their smart phones, and I’ll still have them on speed dial when I run out of petrol or want to know how to cook a roast dinner. Old habits die hard. And I’ll always be a home bird at heart.

In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old trying to get used to living away from her parents.