As I moved my final box of belongings back into my parents' house, I recalled the episode of Seinfeld where George Costanza was forced to move back in with his eccentric parents.
Whilst I haven't found myself chanting 'serenity now' yet, I feel that going forward I must watch what I say in the house in particular around my mother. For clarification my mum was and still is heavily involved in writing for this very paper.
While I won't name her outright, your one and only clue is that you can find her thoughtful and quirky reads every Sunday opposite Jo Palmer.
While I could think of no better mentor or source of advice, my mother has been known to give you, the reader, an insight into my family's oddities and embarrassing habits without our permission.
This can be somewhat frustrating as you can imagine, to constantly make sure you watch what you say and do less it be in the public domain that Sunday. This has been going on since the late nineties when I was a child.
On one such occasion, I relayed to my mother, the journalist, how I disliked one of my primary school teachers, even likening their practices to that of a dictator. Unbeknownst to me, my mother wrote this into her article that weekend.
Sufficed to say it didn't take me long to figure out why that particular teacher stared me down with the fury of a thousand suns the following Monday.
Another time more recently, she informed you all of my alleged discovery that showers are not self-cleaning.
I dispute this allegation wholeheartedly, and maintain that I only didn't know the shower needed to be cleaned to the high, almost Stalinistic (there I go with the dictators again) standards I was supposed to clean it to.
I, on the other hand, choose to take the moral high ground and not besmirch my journalist-mother's fine name before the public.
But if you are out there reading, mum, I caution you not use my moving in as a chance for some TMZ-style reporting.
We wouldn't want these fine readers to learn of the Stockholm incident, would we? I just feel sorry for my father who must now share his home with two chattering journalists, that poor, poor man.
- Harry Murtough is a journalist at The Examiner.