I love having a room to myself. I think it was because while growing up I lived in a small powdered pink room with my sister. Sleeping on the bottom bunk, because that is where younger siblings belong.

My room in my college house is huge, big, spacious and a great place to breathe. And I adored hiding out in it. But not really anymore. Someone actually broke into my room (muddy footprinter we call him) and messed it all up for me. Now I sit on my bed at 11.30 with the full light on and am preparing to switch that off to turn on a reading lamp which will stay on throughout the night. Or, I might tidy it, change the bed clothes and make the place look different from this morning.

When we called the guards they were a-typical Irish men. Joking about the state of the kitchen, quoting lines from the plays that I had on my wall and trying to figure out who in my family they knew. In between telling me they wouldn't be surprised if the person came back cause they didn't take alot. They gave my no end of comfort.

They also very professionally referred to my window as "stupid", this is a police officer term I have no doubt, I have been getting into the lingo. Calling people perps, and my room a crime scene.... but now the joke has past its sell by date.

It shows that no matter where you are in the world, or what has gone wrong, you will always call home for them to fix everything.

This concluded with my father making sure it wasn't an "inside job"...

CSI Guiry- fighting crime, one under the table payment at a time.