Preparing for your youngest daughter to flee the nest

September – the time of young ones, their departure and new beginnings, writes Aida Austin. 

My husband and youngest daughter are sitting side by side at the kitchen table, staring at the laptop screen. They have been scrolling through rental listings for the past half hour.

The accommodation situation in Cork has changed. Apparently, what with Brexit, the number of foreign students in Cork has doubled this year. So now, rented accommodation in Cork is just as dire as it ever was but twice as hard to get. Their faces reflect this: they both look so conflicted I wouldn’t be surprised if their faces tore in two.

“There’s one here that looks hopeful,” my husband says, “it’s really central, right by the river. Thirteen photos…..let’s have a look.” “Go straight to the bedroom ones,” my youngest says, “I want to see what they’re like.” “For god’s sake,” my husband says, clicking through the photos, “why would anyone upload six photos of the sitting room and… one... two... three… of the toilet? There’s even two of the washing machine here.” My eldest daughter is back from Edinburgh. “They show you the best room first,” she says, chopping garlic for a risotto, “to get your hopes up.” “What hopes?” my husband says.

“You’re hogging the screen, Dad,” my youngest says, turning the laptop round, “let me see it.” Silence falls. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter so much about the sitting room as long as the bedroom is nice,” she says.

“Let’s get the bedroom photos up then,” my husband says. I look up from the kitchen counter, where I am making tea.

“Go straight to number thirteen,” I say, “I have a feeling you’ll find it there.”

Silence falls once more.

“I think that’s just the landing,” my youngest says, “look – there.” “Where?” my husband says.

“There,” my youngest says, “those brown things next to the bed.”

My eldest stands behind them.

“Those brown things definitely look like bannisters.”

“What brown things?” my husband says, “let me just zoom in on it.”

“Zooming in won’t make it bigger in real life,” my eldest says.

“It won’t make bannisters not be bannisters,” I say.

Another silence descends.

“You’re right,” he says, “zooming in just makes it dirtier.”

My eldest peers over their shoulders.

“And you get to see a bowl of cat-food at the end of the bed,” my eldest says.

“Could be dog,” my husband says, “it’s a very big bowl for a cat.”

“Let me have a look,” I say.

I look.

“It doesn’t look like there’s a window in that room,” I say.

“Unless it’s behind that cupboard,” my husband says.

“Basically,” I say, “the landlord has carved a bedroom out of a landing with no window, I mean no-one in their right minds would put a cupboard over a window.”

“I’ve seen landlords do worse things than that,” my eldest says.

“You can zoom out, now Dad,” my youngest says.

Monday evening. My youngest is heading up to Cork to view three houses.

I have considered the emotional dimensions of accompanying her on this mission in full: by the end of it, I will want to punch a landlord in the face.

My husband drives her up to Cork and down.

“So did the princess find her palace?” I say.

“Only if the princess doesn’t mind sleeping in a bedroom straight off a kitchen where the door to the loo is bang beside the fridge. And I mean bang. The fridge was right up against the doorframe of the door to the loo.

“Two doors side by side,” he continues, “so while one student is getting milk from the fridge, another might be sitting on the loo inches away behind a flimsy partition wall.”

“That’s absolutely gruesome,” I say.

“Guess how much are they’re charging someone to sleep in a room that goes straight off the kitchen where the toilet door is bang next to the fridge.”

“Three-fifty a month?” I say.

“Four hundred and eighty-five euros,” my husband says, “not including bills. Five rooms in the house, all as grim as each other. Work it out.”

“That is morally reprehensible,” I say.

“I know,” he says.

“That’s greedy and shameful and wicked,” I say.

“I know,” my husband says, “we should have bought a house in Cork.”

Why would anyone upload one... two... three photos of the toilet?