AND so Wolverine has launched herself on the unsuspecting world of third-level education.
Having scored a Leaving Certificate which, in the words of her school principal, was "far better than she deserved, and nowhere near what she could have got," she managed to scrabble into a course in childhood studies.
"Childhood studies?" you squeaked, dazed and disbelieving, speechlessly gesturing towards Wolverine's long-suffering younger siblings.
"You barely know their names!"
Wolverine tosses her head insouciantly.
She's getting an apartment and a life, she sneers, tossing her head at your suggestion that, like 90pc of students who live within a bus journey of college, she'll commute from home.
Are you kidding her?
She'll support herself!
She'll get a job!
And anyway, she has, like, tons of money saved from the summer!
How much, you inquire.
After some prodding Wolverine reluctantly reveals that she has squirreled away somewhere around €650.
It's glaringly inadequate but the mere fact that she has saved anything from her summer job leaves you gasping.
You mention the latest surveys on the cost of college living, pointing out that Wolverine can expect to pay up to €900 a month.
Wolverine doesn't believe you.
"You're just telling lies to try and stop me going," she bellows.
You shake out the newspaper; yes, there it is in black and white – she can expect to pay an average of €400 on rent and household bills and €484 on living expenses.
Wolverine struggles to conceal her shock and dismay.
You repeat your suggestion that she stay at home, enjoy free bed and board, and commute to classes by bus.
"I can't stay in this hole another week! I can't stand any of you – especially you," she shrieks; "I'm getting an apartment! "
You raise your eyebrows and point at the newspaper article.
"Huh! I can live on less than that," declares the girl who recently paid €50 for a pair of Nike running shorts which she immediately lost, who spent €40 on various tubes of make-up for a debs-dance; tubes which now lie half-used on the floor of her bedroom, and who contributed absolutely nothing to the household over the summer months despite having had a summer job.
She'd better not try sponging off her grandparents, you warn.
Hardly, she sneers – she isn't even speaking to them since Grandad said she was wasting her time on a mickey mouse course.
"That won't be forgotten," she thunders, heading upstairs, to bang out a CV.
"Well if you must fall, may you fall hard," you murmur, making yourself a cup of tea.