My toilet broke this week – and I am thrilled. The flush button had been dropping hints for a while that it preferred staying down instead of popping back up when pushed. I ignored it thinking it was being overdramatic, until a few days ago when it made good on the threat. It sat with its shiny head pulled right in, causing the water to run into the bowl non-stop and the internal pump to glug and gasp as it competed to keep the cistern filled up.
Like any other veteran renter, I am skilled with the necessary survival mentality it takes to live in a property in need of urgent repairs. In a housing crisis where there is nowhere else to move to, why risk the landlord deciding that actually it’s too much hassle to get a new stove top, when property prices have risen and they can just sell the lot? No, it’s more sensible to convince yourself that meat has much more flavour when grilled on a barbecue in the rain under an umbrella.
At first I tried to convince myself that the sound of constant splashing was fine. Relaxing even. Isn’t that what a waterfall essentially is? I had just accidentally installed a water feature into my house, like a less-posh version of the trickling fountain variety you see in hotel lobbies, that’s all. Maybe I’d even increased the property value. I saw myself showing Dermot Bannon this on some TV show that’s really an excuse for the rest of us to judge a stranger’s design choices, and him praising me for my effective use of space. But then the pipes started making weird noises, the gurgling got louder, and then the water stopped coming out of the taps.
This was now a problem. “You might have to get someone out,” my boyfriend said.
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This was the news I had been secretly hoping for. It was late in the evening and no plumbers would be available, so it was the perfect time to ring my Dad in Australia.
I knew my dad would be delighted to be woken up with questions about a dodgy dunny
Homesickness is an odd beast. Often it has you thinking about people that you miss more than you call. The feeling that’s left after they hang up can be worse than not having spoken to them at all, especially if you were the one that went off to seek a life somewhere else. It was your bloody decision to leave home, so nobody wants to hear you whinge about how lonely or sad you feel – or so we tell ourselves. There’s an instinct to protect others from worrying about us. If we admit we’re struggling or had a bad day, there’s a good chance they might continue to worry even though the day has passed into a better tomorrow.
You don’t want them bumping up against upsetting thoughts and fears over us being alone, in the same way your tongue keeps running over the painful ulcer in your mouth.
So you have to have a reason to call home. A cousin getting married. You’ll never guess who’s pregnant. What’s the neighbour done this time. Have you seen the game?
I knew my dad would be delighted to be woken up with questions about a dodgy dunny. That is because my dad expresses his love for his adult children primarily by a) Yelling at them to sort out their pensions, and b) Fixing everything for them.
The concept of “love languages” sprung from a Christian pastor and couples counsellor in the 1990s. It’s based on the premise that we all have a way we give and would like to receive love, and that might be different to the other people in our lives. For example, if one person’s love language is acts of service, and their partner’s is physical touch, they might think, “If he tries to cuddle me one more time when I’m all hot and bothered after taking out the poxy bins by myself again because he didn’t do it, I’ll scream.”
Despite the popularity of the “Five Love Languages” growing on TikTok, there are enough legitimate criticisms of the theory to take it with a grain of salt. But there is something to be said for understanding the different ways people show (or don’t show) love.
It’s not just parents who show care in their own ways. It’s other people around us, like the neighbours who take in your bins when you’re away without asking
When my parents stayed with me recently, I woke up every morning to a staircase board repainted or a previously sticky blind now suspiciously smooth. “We just like to keep busy,” they said, but that was not the full truth.
Every little job, every nail or paint sample or thing I didn’t even know needed fixing was an “I love you, I miss you and even though you are grown-up I would still like to care for you.”
“Eat some of this before you go to work,” said my mum, holding out her love language in the form of bowls of chopped fruit.
It’s not just parents who show care in their own ways. It’s other people around us, like the neighbours who take in your bins when you’re away without asking. The GAA volunteers at the sidelines on freezing pitches. The bus driver who lets you on with a wink even though you don’t have the right change. Once you start noticing it, it’s hard to stop.
I’m on the phone to Dad looking into the toilet.
“Now do you see the lever at the back there?” he asks.
Of course I do. I watched a YouTube video on how to fix it earlier and sorted it out on my own.
But he doesn’t need to know that.
