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MUSINGS A domestic dog mess


Clothes pegs

A domestic dog mess

Diary of a home bird
Ciara Galvin

THE roomies went to the big shmoke last week and I was designated ‘Bean an Tí’.
When I was handed this role before, it didn’t exactly go according to plan, with an overactive paper shredder nearly causing a fire and a perplexing mystery surrounding ‘who put out the bins?’.
This time, I was determined that the two-day stint would go off without incident.
Curtains were pulled at the designated times, in order to combat the age-old fear of west of Ireland parents. (‘Jesus will you open the curtains, the neighbours will think we’re dead’.)
Learning from a former mistake, I refrained from even eating at home. No cooking equals no mess. The morning the roomies were expected back I made sure the clothes were off the line and the dishwasher was emptied, and with not even a threat of a fire, I assumed I’d be the favourite child on their return.
Was I? Well, yes, but the humorous female roomie decided to make sure I didn’t get too ahead of myself. When I got home from work I asked whether she noticed that I took the clothes from the washing line. She replied, ‘Yes, I thought we’d been robbed’. Touché Madre.
I said I should familiarise myself with the washing line more frequently, and decided to start by helping ‘The Boyf’ out with his domestic chores. Though he and his roommate are, let’s just say, ‘particular’ about the way things are done around the house, I said I’d give it a go. ‘What’s the harm in trying, eh?’
Well, I found out the harm comes in the form of a four legged friend called Betty.
I ‘helpfully’ hung out The Boyf’s clothes one morning, with Betty keeping me company throughout the process. Happy with myself, I returned home to more pressing issues. (Nail painting and deciding what to wear out that night.) Speaking to a friend as I painted on the second coat, I looked out the window at the torrential rain. ‘Bleeeeep’. ‘Oh well, at least I tried. Can’t be blamed for the weather’, I assured myself.
A few hours later The Boyf arrived to the homestead for dinner and mentioned that I had hung out the clothes. Thinking he was about to mention the weather, I quickly interrupted: ‘How was I to know it was going to rain?’.
That wasn’t where the problem lay, however.
It turns out, the line of washing was not expertly hoisted high in the air as is normally done,  thus remaining in reach of Betty the Boxer.
The line of washing became somewhat of a Funderland attraction to Betty Boo, with towels, shirts and other garments strewn around the yard.
And there was me wondering why she was looking on happily as I hung them out.
So what now? Now, I’m only tasked with the folding of clothes, under supervision of course.
I guess everyday’s a school day, and over the last two week’s I’ve learned that the roomies will always suspect the worst when I do something out of the ordinary like contribute domestically.
And in The Boyf’s case, well, I think I’ll just stick to cooking dinners. He can man the washing machine.

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.