Blissful peace but it’s very quiet without the parents

AFTER 11 weeks in lockdown with my parents, dozens of loaves of banana bread, countless laments about missing my personal space and one epic row (my fault mainly but I also blame the Côtes du Rhône), I find myself alone in Kerry. And boy, is it quiet. The afternoon my parents choose to depart is sunny and warm. They leave a bit late because, no disrespect, but for every year after 60, you have to add at least 30 minutes extra to your ETA to factor in all the faffing to find your coat, shoes, keys, sunglasses, other glasses, wallet, the dog’s lead, oh and check if your trousers are on the right way around. Okay, that last bit was disrespectful. By 4pm they are gone.

“This is bliss,” I think, lying in the garden. I stroll around the house in my knickers, leave dishes in the sink, open a beer and smoke in the garden in peace.

I’m convinced that my parents have hearing problems so they don’t know how loud they are. Last week I was trying to read the papers when my dad, looking on Facebook, saw a picture of a cousin and his girlfriend. “Look, it’s cousin X and his girlfriend!” my dad said loudly. My mother, sitting a few inches away, shouted back: “She’s his fiancee!” “Beyonce?” my dad roared. “Not Beyonce, FI-AN-CEE!” my mum bellowed.

That night, I go to bed in silence. No explosions, or machine gunfire from the war movies my dad likes coming from downstairs. No pings from my mum’s phone (which she doesn’t know how to mute). In the morning I creep to the kitchen. No kettle boiling, no chatter with the dog. Oh God, I think I miss them.