When Harold met Ciara
Diary of a home bird
OFTEN I find myself in stitches listening to the roomies discuss their trials and tribulations with modern technology, or when they enquire as to when I’m moving out.
When the male roomie needs help consulting ‘Mr Google’ and the female roomie wants to know why the PC sounds like a plane taking off (I still have no explanation for this), it occurs to me that the roles have been somewhat reversed. Instead of Pops reminding me that as a child I used to ask him could I help plant the ‘lamps’ in the garden, I now remind him of the time he thought he could only access his emails from one computer. However, I’ve also realised we all have ‘one of those moments’ every now and again.
I have more than my fair share, the most recent involving an unopened bottle of wine and a colander.
One Friday night, I decided to indulge in all the best things in life: a nice bottle of wine and a Dairy Milk Oreo bar. Having worked in a bar for the past eight years, I consider myself well educated in the art of opening a bottle of wine. Not so. Five minutes in and I had made a hames of the cork. Impatiently, I brought the bottle upstairs to The Boyf and demanded he open it (hell hath no fury like a thirsty woman). Numerous attempts later, with bits of the cork now all over the upstairs bathroom, I admitted defeat. A new strategy was needed.
I thought the best move would be to push the offending cork into the bottle. This resulted in, well, a wine with more than ‘a hint’ of oak.
Being the adaptable person I am, I decided to pour the wine through a colander (not even a sieve) and into a fruit bowl, which I then drew out of with a cup, decanting the into my wine glass before removing the last bits of cork with a spoon. It did the job, but I won’t be drinking my wine with a teaspoon in hand again anytime soon.
On another recent occasion I again had ‘a moment’ as my sister dropped me to Heuston Station after a weekend of babysitting my Godchild Saran. Turning off the sat nav, my sister took a more-scenic route from Dundrum. As I looked out at a new-to-me area, I asked her who Harold was and noted that he ‘must be doing well for himself with all his businesses’. Turns out we were driving through Harold’s Cross! I fobbed it off as a joke to my sister, but later the truth came out, much to my family’s enjoyment.
A little pink in the face maybe, but I still take solace in the fact that everyone has those moments.
An acquaintance, who will remain nameless, recently purchased a beautifully engraved photo frame for a newly engaged friend. Handing it over, she revealed she found herself in a dilemma when getting it engraved, not knowing whether to put the year she got engaged or the year she was getting married. The perplexed friend replied, ‘so you decided on neither?’. My friend had the frame engraved with 2014, neither of the significant years of engagement or future wedding date. I’m sure it now takes pride of place as a very ‘unique’ gift.
For the record, I still blame the corkscrew.
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.