Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (8 page)

Friday 22 February

This nanny business is getting me down. Today I was
told I could have an 'au pair plus', which at first I
thought simply meant a fat au pair, but apparently they
are au pairs who do more than 5 hours per day –
around 7 hours. But I need an au pair who does at least
10 hours, and those sorts of au pairs are called nannies.
There's no way round it.

11 p.m.

Oh yes there is. Just had a brainwave while Sally is in the
bath. I shall hire TWO au pairs. It's a genius idea. The
first one can do the morning shift, and the second one
can do the afternoon. I've worked it all out, and
between them, they'll have enough hours to cover the
whole day. They'll have to share a bedroom, but I'm
sure that will be fine.

I am almost rubbing my hands with glee. I'm sure
Sally will see the logic in it.

Saturday 23rd February

Turns out she didn't.

'We are NOT having two au pairs,' she said to me
over breakfast this morning.

'Why not?'

'Because there's not enough room in the house, and
secondly, I know your real reason for wanting two au
pairs.'

'What?'

Sally looked at me suspiciously and smiled a little.

'Oh come on, don't play the naïf with me.'

'Nice to hear correct use of naïf.'

'Don't change the subject.'

'What?' I went.

'You know,' she said.

Her coyness was a product of the fact that the
children were tucking into their Rice Krispies.

'I have no idea what you are talking about.'

Lesbianism was of course the last thing on my mind.
The very last thing indeed.

Sunday 24 February

At lunchtime, Peter asked why the parents of his friend
Tom have two houses. (They have a holiday cottage
down in Devon, the bastards. Still waiting for the
invitation.)

'It's because they have lots of money,' said Sally.

My jealous side wouldn't allow this.

'I suspect it's because Tom's granny and grandpa
gave it to them,' I said.

I looked at Sally.

'I can't believe that Tim earns enough to have bought
it,' I said. 'And didn't Louise's parents snuff it last year?
They're bound to have left them a load of dosh.'

'Charmingly put,' she replied. 'But it doesn't alter
the fact that they still managed to buy it.'

'Ah, but it doesn't really count if they were left the
money.'

Sally looked puzzled.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I don't begrudge anybody inherited wealth,' I
said. 'That's just luck of the draw, and good for them.
But what I do resent is those who have earned it.'

'Surely it should be the other way round?'

'No. Those who earn pots of cash are invariably less
talented and brilliant than I am, and therefore I resent
the fact that they are richer than me.'

'But that's a bizarre way to think,' said Sally. 'So do
you really think you should be the richest person in the
world? Is there nobody more talented than you who
deserves to be earning more money than you?'

'Um . . .'

Sally laughed. (Nice to see – we don't seem to laugh
enough these days.)

'You're terrible,' she said. 'I just hope
WonderHubby
makes you millions of pounds, otherwise you'll spend
the rest of your life as a bitter old man.'

'Mummy!' Peter piped up.

'Yes?'

'If Daddy doesn't have enough money, shall we get a
new daddy?'

Much laughter from both Sally and me, although mine
was rather hollow, and Sally's seemed rather fiendish.

'Not a bad idea,' she said, which made me smart,
although after we had cleared away the plates she gave
me a reassuring kiss and a hug. Peter and Daisy joined
in at this point, hugging our legs, which was a Cute
Moment.

'So do you support
WonderHubby
?' I asked.

Sally laughed.

'Not one little bit,' she said.

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Well, the whole thing will probably go tits up anyway
if I can't find a nanny.'

'That would be most unfortunate,' said Sally.

'Hmmm. I can see that you really care about it.'

'What's that expression that you always use?'

'What? It'll be fine?'

'That's the one,' said Sally. 'I'm sure it'll be fine.
Pudding?'

Tuesday 26 February

Nanny salvation has come, amazingly, from Sally. She
brought home the good news this evening.

'There's a woman called Sue at work going on six
months' maternity leave,' she told me, 'and she's
decided that she doesn't need their nanny.'

'Why not? I'd have thought maternity leave would be
the perfect time to have one.'

'Well, she's a little like me, and she doesn't
particularly like having strangers around.'

Ouch.

'OK. And?'

'Well, because I'm lovely and helpful, I suggested that
maybe we could take her on for a few months, IF your
wretched programme goes ahead.'

'And?'

'Well, Sue is going to talk to her tonight. She said
she'll let me know tomorrow.'

'And who is this nanny?'

'She's from Turkey, and she's called Halet
apparently. The only reason why I'd consider her is
because she's already been security-cleared.'

'Age?'

'I knew that would come soon. Fifty-four.'

My pathetic blokey heart sank. It was perhaps just as
well.

'Waist–hip ratio?' I asked.

Sally aimed an imaginary pistol at me.

'By all accounts, it sounds as though her waist is wider
than her hips.'

'Oh good.'

All this talking of measurements reminded me of our
friend Clare, who worked out the Body Mass Indexes of
all her potential au pairs, and ended up employing the
one with the least flattering ratio. How Darwinian is
that?

Thursday 28 February

Halet came to see us today, and I have to say, the
children took to her immediately, and she to them. I
liked her enormously as well – she's all Mumsy and
cuddly and friendly and seems utterly reliable. She's
been a nanny in Britain for some 16 years, and has two
grown-up children of her own. I asked her whether they
had gone back to Turkey, but she said that she didn't
really come from Turkey, rather from somewhere
utterly unpronounceable, and that it was easier just to
say Turkey. Fair enough. Anyway, her two sons work
over here, and she showed me some pictures of them,
and a couple of bigger thugs you couldn't imagine, but
I made all the right cooing noises about what strapping
lads they were. Unfortunately, it transpires that Halet is
a widow, and she took up nannying when her husband
died. He was killed in a plane crash on the way back
home, and I could see that she was still desperately sad
about it.

Peter's first question to her was typically forward.

'Are you going to be our new granny?' he asked.

At first I was worried that Halet might be offended,
but she ruffled his hair and said that she would love
to be his new granny so long as his other grannies
didn't mind, which I thought to be the perfect
response.

Peter's second question was equally forward.

'Why is your skin so dark?'

Once again I closed my eyes in shame. Halet wasn't
that dark, but she definitely had the appearance of a
much-cherished deep tan handbag.

'That's because I come from a long way away,' she
said. 'Where there is lots of sun, and you know what the
sun does, don't you?'

'It makes you warm,' said Peter.

'That's right,' said Halet. 'And it also makes your skin
go dark.'

Peter chewed on this.

'You must have been in the sun a long time!' he said.

Halet and I laughed, and I bribed the children with
some TV so she and I could talk business. The upshot is
that I can't believe how perfect she is for us – she only
lives 10 miles away, she has her own car, she's not too
expensive, and she comes highly recommended. I told
her that we could only employ her for three months at
first, but hopefully, if my series paid off, she would be
employed full-time. Again, she seemed remarkably
relaxed. The only thing that seemed to cause her some
confusion was the fact that I was the househusband, and
Sally was the one with the job.

'Back home,' she said, 'this would never happen.'

'I'm sure,' I replied. 'It doesn't happen here very
often either.'

'And now you're going to make a TV programme
about how to look after kids, and yet you won't be
looking after your own!'

Halet laughed at her own observation, and I did my
best not to be peeved at her tactless recognition of the
irony of the situation.

'Well,' I said, 'there are plenty of these so-called
childcare gurus who do not even have children, so I feel
more qualified than they are!'

'One day, I think I should like to make a programme,'
she said.

Not a chance, I thought, shuddering at the thought
of potential competition. I smiled weakly and went and
summoned the children from the TV, which did not go
well.

'OK, show Halet how you can turn the TV off,' I said.

'Don't want to!' shouted Peter. 'I'm watching
Bob the
Builder
!'

'No!' shrieked Daisy, as if I had suggested that I dunk
them both in ice-cold water.

'Come on, TV off!'

They didn't budge, much to my embarrassment. I was
determined to show Halet just how authoritative I was,
especially as she seemed somewhat sceptical about my
forthcoming career.

'If you don't turn off the TV by the time I count to
three, then . . .'

My voice trailed. The truth is, I never know what to
threaten them with.

'One!' I began.

No movement.

'Two!'

My voice was louder and hopefully sterner now.

'Three!'

No movement.

Bob continued to do his thing with Wendy.

'Right!' I said. 'I'm going to turn it off myself!'

'No!' came an angry little chorus.

Suddenly, from over my shoulder, Halet spoke.

'Peter. Would you turn the television off please?'

Her voice was calm and authoritative – everything
mine was not. Peter and Daisy looked at her with
surprise, their cunning eyes scanning her face for signs
of weakness. Evidently they could find none, because
without any further argument both of them got up and
made their way to the television, where they even had
a brief contretemps about which one of them would
turn it off. (Surprisingly, Daisy won – triumph of the
will.)

I turned to Halet. I was both impressed and sheepish.

'Thanks,' I said croakily.

'Years of experience,' she replied.

'I think we could do with your years.'

Later, when I told all this to Sally, she struggled hard
not to be delighted. After all, she didn't like the idea of
a nanny, but she certainly liked the idea of the children
receiving more discipline.

'Just think,' she said, 'you'll learn a lot, perhaps more
than the children.'

'Gee. Thanks a bunch.'

Friday 29 February

Had a long chat with Dom today, and he told me that
things were going really well. The format of the show
has all been worked out (why wasn't I included in the
discussions?) and it looks as though they've even found
a family for me to do my consulting on.

'I can't tell you how dreadful these people are,' said
Dom. 'We once tried using them for some partner-swap
programme, but the people we were trying to swap
them with refused so emphatically, they said they would
take me to court for causing untold cruelty.'

'What's so bad about them?' I asked.

'Well, the dad, if he's ever around, once served two
years for GBH. He's called Big Ted, by the way. Then
there's the mum, Debbie, who looks like a bulldog
licking piss off a thistle. Horrendous woman, all she
seems to do is to smoke cheap fags and swear. Then
there are the kids, Little Ted, who's fourteen, and
Epernay, who's nine.'

'Epernay?'

'Yup. Epernay. They saw it on a bottle of champagne
once.'

'Jesus,' I said. 'These people sound like chav central.'

'Indeed they are. And, get this.'

'What?'

'Little Ted has got his first ASBO.'

'Aaah,' we cooed together, as though we were
marvelling at some charming kiddie moment.

Inwardly, I was shit-scared. These people sounded as
though they might well kill me. I said as much to Dom.

'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'We'll have Eric on
standby.'

'Eric?'

'Our friendly bouncer and skull-cracker. He's done
time for GBH too, so he should give Big Ted a run for
his money if things turn nasty. Don't worry, you'll be in
good hands.'

'But aren't this family a little extreme?' I asked. 'I
mean, how the hell can I help them? My techniques
only really work on nice middle-class families who've
got slightly unruly kids who moan when they have to
brush their teeth.'

'Extreme is what makes TV, amigo.'

I sighed.

'All right.'

'By the way,' said Dom, 'we need to film you all on
Tuesday next week. Can your wife get the day off? You
know the drill – we need to present you as the happy
family, all perfect and cornflakes packet. Will make a
nice contrast.'

I gulped.

'I'm sure that'll be fine,' I lied.

Sunday 2 March

Sally's first response was:

'I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm not going to do it.'

Polite, calm, nice.

However, every time I needled her, she became more
and more definitive.

'No. I've already said no.'

'There's really no point in you asking.'

'Sam!'

'Look. It's just not do-able with work.'

'You'll just have to manage without me.'

'For Pete's sake! No!'

'How many times do I have to bloody tell you?'

'I know what you're about to say – NO!'

'Fuck off!'

Honestly, you would have thought I was asking to do
the thing we never do in bed. No matter how much I
pleaded, how much I told her it was important, she was
adamant. When I asked her what I was going to do
without her, she just said that I should use an actress.
Not a bad idea.