My Duck Fetish Housemates and Where it All Went Wrong (Part One of Three)

About two years ago when I first moved to Dublin City I was really excited. I had this vision of a New-York Sitcom type life. After spending my formative years in bog holes and blackberry bushes, in the back end of nowhere, I was ready. This was going to be a new beginning and I tried as usual to have realistic expectations.

But Dublin was pricey and I soon realised that there is no such thing as the dream apartment. There is the apartment that will have you and you accept gratefully whether or not the toilet works and the ceiling is caving in. So I ended up in a teeny tiny shared room. There was barely space to stand between my bed and my roommates.

The second issue arose when I tried to unpack. It soon became clear that by Dublin standards I was something of a hoarder and there just wasn't enough space to accommodate all my belongings.

But this was not going to deter me. I decided to befriend my new housemates. After all this was never going to be like the TV sitcoms if we didn't get to know each other. I was living with what appeared to be a lovely Brazilian couple and a very shy girl who barely spoke. So at our first house-breakfast I attempted to make conversation.

I assumed of course that they just weren't morning people. Having grown up with my mother not being able to piece a sentence together until the coffee kicks in , I wasn't surprised.

However, my quiet roommate made it rather clear that they simply weren't chatty folk. That afternoon I was presented with the official house rules.

 A most welcoming list of laws to abide by.

The list had at least twenty rules varying in levels of normalcy. Being my usual tactful self I tried to make light of the situation.

Needless to say nobody was impressed.

I made a few more light-hearted and sarcastic remarks.

 That fell heavy on what was a very silent audience.

After that I got a bit nervy. I tried asking about the girl I'd replaced and why she had left. But my shy roommate didn't offer much in the way of useful information.

Despite my misgivings it seemed like it was too early to give up on the living arrangement yet. After all I'd only been in Dublin a week and they were just quite people. I could cope with silence and perhaps the awkward feeling would subside. I was going to make the best of it. That was until I discovered a weird and disturbing thing. One day I came home earlier than planned and heard duck noises coming from the Brazilian couples room.

At first I thought they might just be watching a documentary. But is soon became clear that this was not the case. I hoped then that perhaps this was a once-off. But a few days later, when it happened again, I realised I'd moved in with some rather unusual people.

You Know You're Ancient Before Your Time When Your Halloween Party Goes Like This...

My housemate decided to throw a house party for Halloween. This threw me into a huge state of turmoil. Not only did this thwart all plans I had of eating my weight in chocolate while watching bad horror movies but it also meant I had to decide who to invite.

After realising that most of my friends are as socially inept as me, I decided it was best to avoid any situation in which they were forced to mingle with people who have mastered the art of small talk.

That's right I made the decision not to know anybody at a party in my own house. At the time it seemed like the wisest move. Now there was only a costume to worry about. We went shopping for odds and ends. The only problem with this is that I hate shopping. It makes me feel ill and dizzy and hungry. I lose the will to live and become easily influenced. Which is exactly what happened. 

At the time the lady bird costume built for your average five year old seemed hilarious. But on the night it just looked hideous and ridiculous. 

I went downstairs to show my housemate how silly I looked. I found her looking like some sort of beautiful sugar coated princess. 

Then my other housemate came downstairs looking exactly like she always looks when staying in for the night. She'd turned herself into a giant fluffy dressing gown and when I asked what she was supposed to be I found out that attending our house's house party had been a choice all along. 

It was too late though. Guests started arriving and I was clearly dressed up to participate. As people filed in I noticed a recurring pattern in their outfits. They almost looked like they weren't dressed up at all, with the exception of some subtle head pieces.

I sat sociably in a corner watching the party slowly heat up. It wasn't long before our sitting room became some sort of strange photo-shoot. Full of laughter and if something wasn't funny enough to merit actual laughter people would just flick their hair and say "LOL." 

I was horrified and turned to the other semi-anti-social sitting on the outskirts beside me and voiced my concern. I mistakenly thought she would be equally disturbed. 

At that point I gave up on the party.

I skulked off to my room. Where I had more important and pressing matters to handle. 

I spent hours organising my drawers and making lists of things I needed to do. Eventually the party left our house to go and "LOL" elsewhere. My housemate who'd also been hiding in her room, emerged to investigate the damage. She came to me looking ever so slightly terrified. 

We spent five minutes peeping at the comatose teenager sprawled across our couch. 

We flicked the light switches on and off until he snorted and revealed he was indeed alive. We then decided to clean up some of the crazier things he had done in his drunken stupor. 

After cleaning raw eggs off the floor, we decided it was best to go to sleep and leave the boy sleeping off his condition. The next morning we were all having breakfast and he had vanished. There was a note left where he had been sleeping. 

At this point we realised that nobody had any idea who Jack or Stephen were. We sat sipping our tea in shock. 

How Not to Make Your Holy Communion

When I was seven I made my Holy Communion. It seemed like a big deal at the time, even when I look back it seems kind of like a big deal today. When else do you get to dress up in a big white poofy dress and have money and gifts thrown at you? There’s your wedding, if you want to get all pedantic, but even then you have to share it all with a significant other. But Communions are all about you. And Jesus, I forgot about Jesus.

On my big day there was a series of unfortunate events. Firstly in the run-up, it took tears and sweat and all sorts to find a dress small enough. Back then I was rebelling against growth in general and the top of my head was at the shoulders of everyone else my age. When we found the dress my mother had to saw half the flowers that had been stuck all over it off as she thought they were “tacky”. I remember having to sit around in a dressing gown all morning and not touch things, for fear I would ruin the dress.

Before we got to the church we had to wait for my grandparents to arrive. Presumably they got stuck behind a herd of cows or some other countryside obstacle. This meant we were late. There was the dramatic swinging open of the church doors as I flung my and shuffled into my seat.

When the priest said “I’m glad you could make it Alvy”, I went crimson and remained that way for much of the ceremony.

We had to say small prayers to the congregation and I was first to get it out of the way. Someone complained about my prayer (Who does that? Who makes a complaint mid-ceremony about the way in which a seven year old is delivering her prayer of the faithful?). So when everyone else was finished, they turned the microphone up and I had to repeat the entire thing, shaking and trembling and glowering in the direction of the congregation so that whoever complained would know my wrath.

For whatever reason, I had also imagined that the communion itself would taste like white chocolate buttons. So you can imagine my disgust upon receiving it for the first time to realise it was actually just another piece of dry wafer similar to the ones we had been practicing with. I’m not entirely sure why we were practicing sucking pieces of wafer but the teacher was quite insistent at the time. To save face I still told my younger sisters and brother that it was the best white chocolate that they would ever taste.

My final breech of etiquette came when our neighbour tried to slip me a fiver. I was always listening to her chatting to our mother about her money problems. So it seemed only natural to tell her: “No you’re grand, you can’t really afford it.” Needless to say she didn't take it too well…

My Stint as a Serial Fish Killer

When I was seventeen I was chased from my own birthday party by drunken friends screaming at me to “put down the fish.” I was sober.

It was one of those giant- joint- parties where nobody knows who is being celebrated. I think perhaps three people knew it was my birthday and I spent most of the party in a corner nibbling a birthday cake I hadn't got to blow the candles out on.

About half way through the night two of my best friends presented me with a gift: a fish tank with three fish named in it.  I forgot the names instantly and stared blankly at the tank wondering what part of my teenage existence said “fish-girl.”

I didn't mention I was scared of fish, thought they were ugly and to the best of my knowledge didn't think they were all that durable. I just sat through the party feeling misunderstood.

Occasionally my friends remembered I was there and then they would look expectantly at me, “don’t you like it?” So I nodded, cursing the fact that I would later need to regale them with fun facts about the fish to prove my appreciation.

Anyway when I tried to leave early with the fish in tow I suddenly got noticed. Some drunk friends of friends thought I was stealing the family fish-tank and abandoned their alcohol fueled debate to chase me. I had to leg it across the garden precariously balancing the life of the three fish in my arms, as my mother looked on baffled.

“Are you stealing your friends fish?”

“No, why does everyone think that?”

“Well…”

“Just drop it,”

I spent the next two weeks doing everything I could to keep the fish alive. I fed them constantly, changed their water daily, and cleaned everything. I was not going to be accused of being ungrateful.

Then I woke up one morning and they were all bent funny and bobbing up and down in the water.

“Well you killed them,”

“Maybe they’re not dead?”

“They are clearly dead.”

The deaths were a relief really. The awkward part was telling my friends. I acted upset though so I thought I’d passed the point where they would ever discover my true feelings towards the fish. Then someone asked where I buried them.

“Oh you know I just flushed them down the toilet.”

Cake-in-a-Cup Fiasco

My sister and I were cold. It was a long Irish night and the heating wasn't working. We were curled up on the couch beneath duvets and hot water bottles moaning about how hungry we were.

But the kitchen was so far away and there was nothing particularly motivating about a tuna sandwich. In fact all we had was tuna, onions and ingredients for things that required effort to make.

Then we had a brainwave.
"Can’t you make cake in a cup in the microwave or something? "

We forgot everything about being cold and miserable and lazy; we rushed to the computer, got a Google recipe and started. We didn't have everything so we made a few executive decisions

Sure olive oil and vegetable oil are the same thing.

Isn't cocoa powder with yogurt almost the same as melted chocolate.

Raising powder is over rated anyway?

We got so excited we did a little spoon inspired dance.

When we were finished the cake wouldn't fit in a cup. We had to put it in a saucepan.

It took ten minutes in the microwave, the ten longest minutes of our life. We discussed the cake.

Then the moment came, we dug our spoons into the saucepan and breathed in before taking substantially large mouthfuls.

We sat a moment and considered the situation….

So we tried it again and simply resigned ourselves to disposing of the cake-in-a-cup. After all that we retired back to our blanket on the couch...