Flight TG 982 was virtually empty. In the wake of 9/11, it seems those of us brave enough to tackle air travel are rewarded with empty airplanes and a choice of seats. The lights were dimmed; I had my passport, and with a rush of tubo engines, I was off. This is it, my big trip. I have moved to London. I still don’t really know why, and I still don’t really know how, all I know is… it’s done and there’s no looking back now.
I don’t know about you guys, but it seems to me that, in Australia, people reach a point somewhere in their twenties, where they either pack bag and jump on a plane, or buy a house and jump on a life partner. In my case, one glance at my bank account and a look at my history of three day relationships, it was quite clear that “option A” was the most logical choice. I had been planning to move to England since my teens and now, at the worldly age of twenty three, I was off. Now, some intelligent people make plans before they move countries. You know the usual: they save money, organize a place and a life and fly away safe in the knowledge they would be set up in their country of choice. Not me. Three weeks earlier, I had made a snap decision, borrowed money from the bank of Dad, booked a flight and packed a bag. As I kissed my parents goodbye, I assured them I would be fine. I was a young, self assured woman who was ready to take on the world and to make my mark. This was all going to be it – I would land on my feet and before you can say “Price William and Princess Amy” I would be set for life!
Wrong. Totally wrong.
A mere five hours into the flight I was quickly learning the first two lessons of air travel:
1. If you are 5ft 5 or taller always request an aisle seat (therefore avoiding a wonderful adventure in pain commonly known as “deep vein thrombosis”)
and
2. No matter how cute the stewards, or how drunk you get, 24 hours flying in economy is always going to suck major ass.
Thankfully, in the midst of an airplane coma that can only come with such a long flight, Thai Airways proved to be a plethora of entertainment. If you knew where to find it. An entirely purple interior surrounded me. I rested on purple pillows, under purple blankets, on purple seats, drinking from purple coffee cups and eating with purple knives and forks. It was like flying inside a giant fallopian tube. Unfortunately, the air hostess didn’t seem to appreciate my observation, but was kind enough however to give me a “shut the hell up economy scum” look before she stalking off down the aisle. As if I was going to forget my class anytime soon! I was still trying to regain feeling in my feet after sleeping in a shape resembling a giant pretzel.
Note to self: Don’t make random jokes to complete strangers. What you think is funny will only translate as weird.
Things went a little further askew when I heard the drinks boy proudly proclaiming “screw me, screw me” as he strutted down the aisle with his beverage trolley. In my sozzled airplane wine brain, it didn’t occur to me or my complete lack of manners that he might actually be saying “excuse me. Excuse me. ” Understandably, before you can say “sexual harassment at 10,000 feet,” he too was stalking off down the aisle.
It was then I discovered air travel lesson number three: On an airplane, always be nice to the stewards. The wonderful trolley dollies hold the power of veto on your supply of food, drinks and moist towlettes. They show no mercy if you piss them off and it was no surprise I was now facing a very dry and hungry journey. So, after swallowing my economy seat pride and apologising for my fallopian foepa my food finally arrived. Although I was sure by now the staff must have added their own “herbs and spices” to my meal. Having heard the horror stories of airplane food, I was dreading what mush was to be found under the little tin lid that sat steaming before me. I took in a deep breath and peeled it back. Was I mistaken? Could this be actual food? To my delight, no crappy airline meals were to be found and although a questionable sweet and sour fish soup for breakfast left me having some interesting conversations with the toilet, I happily stir fried my way across the pacific to London.
Note to self: Never compare an airplane to a part of the female reproductive system… it will only end in salmonella.
Eight hours later I was bored beyond all comprehension. I get bored in an elevator ride, so here… trapped in a flying purple tin can I was starting to lose my mind. The movies were crap, the music was shit and I was considering removing my eye with a purple plastic fork when something lovely caught my attention. Everything else faded away and it seemed to pass by me in slow motion. It was tall, it was handsome and it was entering the bathroom. Three words flashed through my mind: MILE HIGH CLUB and a small smile crept across my face. I weighed up the options; it was something to do, a bit of exercise and really the only way I could see to get the blood flowing through my now blue and purple legs.
At least I matched the décor.
I was slowly making a sultry beeline for Mr. Handsome and the engaged lavatory sign, when the damn seatbelt light started flashing and our captain made and announcement. We were about to touch down and refuel in Bangkok. This gave me one hour to touch up, re-board and bang Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome! I had it all planned; the sassy walk, the flick of the hair and the witty, yet somewhat arousing opening line. (“What’s a guy like you doing in a transit lounge like this…”?) It was going to be an irresistible cocktail of sensuality that would no doubt lead to fabulous sex in an airplane toilet. It was a full proof plan.
Again. How very wrong I was.
For future reference let it be known that airplane hair and a deep vein thrombosis swagger does not attract sexy business men from first class. It won’t even attract the homeless guy wearing plastic bags for shoes. It will however, send possible suitors running across a transit lounge screaming in fear. Nothing says sexy like a sleep deprived, limping mongol. To add insult to injury, it was only as I was heading through the bag check that I realised, due to a wisdom tooth aggravation; I had managed to miss my mouth and pour green curry all over my new “I bought this to get laid in England” shirt.
I was still dealing with the shirt stains when the x-ray machine started wildly bleeping at my bags. They had to be joking. It was 3am, I had humiliated myself and a little Thai man, with a very big gun, was now demanding to check my luggage. Obliging, I pulled out my “I smoked but never inhaled” smile and started making deals with God to avoid a set of cold steel stirrups. And not the fun pony club kind. However, my smile faded like the Siam sunset when my little buddy led me to a little room and slipped on little RUBBER GLOVES.
Note to self: No matter how small the hand, in an airport, rubber gloves will always scare the bejesus out of you.
Images of a very public Bangkok Hilton experience ran through my mind except, despite what I tell people on the internet, I don’t look a thing like Nicole Kidman. Nightmares of showering with three hundred hookers in a Thai prison were reeling through my mind when his latex covered hands began to probe… my back pack. Thankfully, thirty minutes later it turned out my hand luggage was the only thing to be open for inspection that day. I was still wondering why the portable metal detector had only beeped over my right nipple when I finally got through to the waiting lounge.
It was there, sitting among the drunk, lobster red sun burnt poms, loudly complimenting each other their “brilliant tans,” that I realised I still had thirteen hours in a flying blood clot to go. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and thought “Portobello Rd better be as much fun as it was in Bed Knobs and Broom Sticks or I’m gonna be kicking some serious British ass.”
………………………………………………………………………………………………
13 hours and a day of jet lag later, I was heading towards my first day as a nanny. Although it had been a snap decision to leave, I did have enough financial wisdom to realise that perhaps £200 was not going to last long in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I needed a job. And so, to earn a crust, I had agreed to be a Nanny for six weeks for a family while they visited relatives in England and had their third baby. All I knew was that English Louise normally lived with her South American husband and two children in Chili. They had been traveling around the world for the past four months and were planning to spend the next six weeks in the UK splitting their time between Louisa’s brother, mother and father’s houses. However her husband had to return home suddenly to tend to his ailing father and she now needed and extra pair of hands around to help out while she saw out the final stages of her pregnancy. Don’t worry. I was confused too.
Now, at this stage I thought I was an expert in children. I had spent the past few years not only working in children’s entertainment but managing entire youth entertainment departments on Australian cruise ships. However, when I was scanning the websites looking for a job, it appeared that everyone needed someone with Nannying experience in particular. Nannying experience? In Australia no one has Nannies! The closest thing I had come to a Nanny was watching Julie Andrews twirl about on a hill dressed as a Nun. So… in an effort to secure myself a job and not winding up in an English gutter, I did what every self assured woman would do. I lied. I told a pregnant, new mother a whopping, big fat lie. I knew I could do the job, Nannying couldn’t be that hard, and really… what’s a little career fabrication between friends?
So… with a doctored resume and a fake reference I managed to get myself a surprise phone interview. It was just past midnight and the phone rang and a terribly lovely English voice came through to me.
“Hello is that Amy? This is Louisa calling, I received your CV for the Nannying job, I just wanted to have a chat and ask you a few questions. Can you tell me about your last Nannying job?”
Well, I was off. Spinning wonderful stories of all Australian children laughing, loving and living together… the lie was so spectacular I began to believe it myself. I was getting on to the stories about chasing dingo’s through the Australian outback when Louisa interrupted me.
“You know, that really doesn’t matter. Amy, I will be honest with you, I am too tired and too pregnant to keep looking for someone so would you like the job?”
And with that, I was hired.
Nothing feels better than getting a job by default. And lying.
From drunken Australians dumping their children at the door to a few weeks in the country with Louisa and her two children… this was going to be a walk in the park!
How very, very wrong I was.
The beginning of my adventure through childcare started like a treasure hunt through the center of London. I was told to head to Louisa’s brother’s house, meet Uncle Jimmy, get settled in, spend the afternoon with him and then Louisa and the kids would arrive later that day. Now, I am notoriously bad at directions, so as soon as Louisa gave me the address, I headed out and bought myself every Londoner’s bible, the London A – Z. Aka, my treasure map. Flipping through the index I found the street I was looking for. Cadogen Square, London. As my eyes scanned through pages of winding streets, I blinked and looked again. This could not be right. Cadogen Square was in the middle of Sloane Square. And Sloane Square is the prime neighborhood of the rich and fabulous of London. I took a minute to re-group. This was it. It was going to happen. I was movin’ on up. I was going to be neighbors with Madonna & Guy, with Gwyneth & Chris. It was gonna be fabulous parties with fabulous people and by the end of six weeks; I’d be happily married to Robbie Williams and known in the tabloids as the Nanny who made it big when she came over for a cup of sugar.
What a wonderful indulgence the imagination can be.
Picture this barely acclimatized, jet lagged bedraggled girl, standing on the steps of a three story London apartment, sweating and straining under the weight of her over stuffed backpack, when a motorbike came buzzing around the corner.
On it rode the pot of gold in this treasure hunt. With a white scarf billowing behind him, clad in jeans and a black leather jacket, “Uncle Jimmy” arrived.
“Well, you must be Amy” said a voice from within the black helmet. He could have been asking if I was the nanny, the cleaner or a zoo keeper… the answer would always have been yes. I was already in love with the faceless man wearing a scarf and riding a motor bike.
And then, as if it was in slow motion, Uncle Jimmy took off his helmet. I nearly died; he was so handsome I could hardly breathe. It took all I had not to drop my back pack, jump on his bike and ride with him off into the sunset. Jimmy was everything you imagine of a proper English gentleman. He was polite, charming and handsome in a rich, grass court tennis kind of way. I could feel myself morphing into some Australian hybrid of Bridget Jones as he climbed of the humming motorcycle. I was picturing mini breaks in country homes, rowing boats and reciting Keats. I was imagining how he would break the shocking news to the family that he was running away with the nanny, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window.
Somehow I couldn’t see Uncle Jimmy running away with someone who currently resembled Jubbah the Hut.
As Jimmy lead me inside to freshen up, it was beginning to dawn on me just exactly what I had managed to get myself into. Jimmy’s place was amazing. I had heard horror stories of dirty, dilapidated London apartments that cost a fortune and were the size of a shoebox. But not in this neighborhood! My first apartment in Melbourne could have fit inside the lounge room of this place, although it would have broken the chandelier. There were three incredible bedrooms, two bathrooms (complete with hot tub) and my favorite part; an exclusive swipe card garden with tennis court across the street. I had hit the jackpot; exceptional place in an exceptional neighborhood with exceptionally attractive Uncle Jimmy. The afternoon was perfect. Cups of tea, wonderful company and fabulous conversation about Jimmy and his brother Gavin’s days at Eaton. Yes… Eaton. In the upper classes of England there are really only two schools for boys to attend; Eaton or Harrow. Conversations with new acquaintances always began with “what is your last name, do I know your family and what school did you got to?” If your answers didn’t come up to social standards… you were out. Of course, James and his brother (yes there was a brother… we’ll get to him later) had been a fine, upstanding Eatonians. Perfectly raised and groomed, just like their father and his days at Eaton with Charles (yes… Prince Charles,) whose best friends were the Spencer’s (yes… Diana Spencer) and how step brother Henry is best mates with Prince William. (Yes there is a step brother… but it is a while until we get there…) By the time the doorbell rang, I had completely forgotten I was actually there to work.
Louisa was beautiful. Curly blonde hair, big blue eyes and a “bustin’ out from the family free spirit” vibe, she was funny, caring and very pregnant. At her knees, two little heads were poking around the corner. Lily, aged 4, and Maximo, aged 2; my best friends for the next six weeks. They had both inherited their mother’s eyes, but Lily had brown hair and tanned skin and Maximo was paler with floppy blonde hair cut into a perfect, highly fashionable, bowl.
The afternoon was quiet and easy. Lots of see how terribly fun I am, see how much I love children interaction and please dear god let her trust me with her kids conversations. After an hour or so of watching to Lilly jump up and down screaming “Look what I can do! Look what I can do!” and listening to her go on and on and on about how great her nanny at home was, how much better she is than me, how fantastic her Daddy is and how much he will hate me, I realised something.
This kid was pissing me off already.
I tried to change the subject by asking Maximo some questions.
“What’s your favorite color Maximo?”
Nothing. Silence.
“What do you like to do?”
Again… nothing. No answer.
“Do you like to talk Maximo?”
After three tries and only little “hrmphs” emanating from underneath that adorable blonde bob, my brain started ticking over. A two year old, who lives in Santiago, on his first trip to London.
I went into Louisa and asked her… “Louisa… does Maximo speak English?”
She turned and looked at me. “Um… a little bit here and there. We where hoping that this trip would teach him some more. But it hasn’t really happened. We normally just speak to him in Spanish. You speak Spanish, right?”
“Yeah… right.”
Wrong wrong wrong wrong and wrong! The most I knew about Spanish was that Penelope Cruz was husband stealer and Rickey Martin was hot no matter how ambiguous his sexuality.
I could not believe this. I was trapped in a house with “everyone else is so much better than you” Lilly and “I have no idea what the hell you are saying” Maximo.
At least Uncle Jimmy was here to make everything all right. Dear lord he was lovely.
Our first night consisted of simple instructions. An early dinner, a quick bath and off to bed. Louisa was heading out to dinner, would be home early and I was determined to have everything completed perfectly with the munchkins away in the land of nod before she got back. Thankfully, my two little monkeys were exhausted from a long day of traveling and despite some “why is the strange lady speaking a different language and putting my nappy on backwards” issues… it was a walk in the exclusive swipe card park. Lilly and Maximo were quiet, ate their dinner and fell asleep to stories of my days growing up riding kangaroos and snuggling wombats. This was going to be a breeze! My new found maternal instincts were crossing both cultural and language barriers. I was obviously destined to be the Mary Poppins of the twenty first century, the coolest Nanny ever and that family were about to love me forever.
Perhaps not.
Early the next morning I woke to a lovely stream of British sunshine streaming in through the window. I jumped out of bed, freshened up and said good morning to Uncle Jimmy. He looked as good over breakfast as he did over tea. It was going to be a good day. We were heading to Battersea Park for a picnic with an entire set of yummy mummy’s and their subsequent Nanny’s. Jimmy, Louisa, Lilly, Maximo & Me. Super Nanny. We were going to be singing Edelweiss in home made lederhosen in no time.
However, to my horror, I was soon to discover that after a good night’s sleep, Maximo and Lily were a marvelously talented pair of actors. And I was now somehow an unwilling co-star in their split personality pantomime (performed in both English and Spanish of course.) Whilst in the presence of Mummy or Uncle Jimmy, Lily was a wonderful, sweet and charming little girl who picked flowers, sang songs and brought joy to those around her. But the instant any relative of hers was out of the room, blood red horns burst out of her head and this little cup of sugar became the devil incarnate. On our first full day together, it started. While Louisa was at the supermarket and Jimmy popped into work, suddenly if I asked Lilly to do anything at all, she immediately began biting and scratching both Maximo and I. She was screaming and crying because I asked her to please not draw on the wall. Then, in a frightening display of brut strength she began throwing ceramic antiques against the wall. I kid you not. As if in slow motion she picked up the ornaments that lined the room and hurled them at the wall. I had one hour to get the place cleaned up.
Uncle Jimmy will never know how many of his vases are held now together with super glue.
Whilst I was busy repairing antiques, Maximo then thought it was helpful to ignore all his bi-lingual bathroom training and use the couch to relieve himself. Spanish speakers help me! How do you politely ask a two year old to stop shitting on the couch? Of course, the chaos ceased the minute Louisa and Jimmy came home but for some reason I found it hard to tell my future husband and new boss “I’m terribly sorry, but your daughter/niece is currently possessed by the devil.” And although I couldn’t believe it, from the broken antiques, Spanish insults and poo stained couches… things began to go downhill.
Forget Mary Poppins, I wasn’t even Fran Drescher. As a Nanny, I completely sucked. I hated every second of it. I spent my mornings dreading the day and my nights planning elaborate methods of escape. It was patronizing, demoralizing and not at all what I thought it would be. Having a four year old shout: “I hate you, my daddy is going to get a gun and shoot you” is not my idea of a wise career choice.
For you to fully understand my situation we must rewind a few months. You may remember me mentioning earlier that my past experience with kids had been running the children’s entertainment department of a cruise ship and sail around the world. As glamorous as this may sound, this basically consisted of getting hideously drunk at night and waking up (in someone else’s bed) with a horrendous hang over. If I made it to work, I would then proceed to send groups of small children on scavenger hunts to get them as far away from me as possible for the majority of the day. If I was lucky, I would get a nap (A.K.A pass out) in the ball pit and wake up to the painful thuds of three year olds throwing plastic toys at my head, this then giving me the unavoidable need to drink myself into oblivion again that night. My fake reference claiming I had worked for her and her kids while they traveled around Australia had been written by my friend Tanya. A 23 year old actor who has never had kids and if she did, would never hire me to look after them, she knows better. In all honesty, I don’t even like children that much. I just needed a job.
And now here I was, up shitty nappy creek without a Spanish paddle.
……………………………………………………………………………………………
As if the pain of these children was not enough, (although I was still debating if Lily was actually a human child) after a week in the bubble of Sloane Square, we had some terrible news. We were leaving London. More importantly, we were leaving Uncle Jimmy. Yes, our time was over before it had begun and I had to let the future father of my children ride off on his motor bike without me while we headed on an overcrowded train to Louisa’s father in Sussex. Oh… and when I say over crowded, I mean Lilly and Maximo running free around the carriage while I was trapped under the weight of five suitcases, six nappy bags, three laptops and a stroller.
Although I was sad to leave Jimmy, I was excited to meet his father. I wanted to see the seed from which this handsome oak tree of a life partner had grown. Apparently Papa Mayhew lived on some kind of property in the rolling hills of the countryside. Louisa had described it to me as “The place I grew up, a quiet little farm where we can just chill out with my Daddy and step family for a while.” Lush! I am a country girl, when people say “farm” I picture cows, sheep and paddocks. I recall childhood memories of shearing sheds with sweaty shearers, large piles of wool and the heavy smell of lanoline in the air. I see men in jeans and blue singlets jumping onto the back of Utes and driving down dusty roads. I therefore logically imagined Louisa’s Dad as a farmer kind of guy, a hard working man up to his elbows in shit. No nonsense and down to earth, someone with whom I could connect.
So much for London, I was heading to the country to be with my people.
Once again. Wrong McWrong Wrong.
ADMIRAL Mayhew picked us up from the train station. There was no Blundstones and blue jeans, only a sea of Audi’s and Polo Ralph Lauren. My images of earthy land loving folk were replaced with a stoic, ex navy man who seemed to have more money than the sultan of Brunei. As we drove towards the farm, I realised this would be nothing like the sweeping Australian cattle stations I knew. From the London flat to the farm, this was a whole other realm. Someone had turned the volume up to crazy. This “Farm” was a never ending estate of manicured gardens, lakes with rowing boats, happy border collies and a country house. Of course this “country house” had 8 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms and a cottage for the gardener and cook. I had somehow slipped into a parallel dimension of: “What shall we do today? Take a dip in the heated pool and row the boat across one of the lakes or shall it be tennis on the outdoor court before some croquet on the front lawn, after badminton on the indoor court? It shant matter too much since, after a dinner of roast pheasant and a few glasses of the best imported wine from Chile, all we shall be able to do is sit around and talk about Ascot and Wimbledon. If you head past the sun room, through the sitting room, after the dining room you should reach the third bathroom, go though there and into the fifth bedroom where you should find the door that leads to the wine cellar….” This is no exaggeration; I was living in a world of starched tennis shorts and roast duck (that of course Admiral Mayhew had shot whilst out on the morning hunt.)
Now, being born and raised in rural Australia, I have never really enjoyed great amounts of time in country retreats as a holiday. As I mentioned before, I have a rather short attention span and so it came as no surprise when, after two days, I was bored out of my mind. There are only so many times you can pick flowers and stroll around the garden. The daily early morning visit to “Dartanion” the elderly, half blind guinea pig ended when Maximo threw him at the dog and he died in a blaze of glory, and rowing the boats was out of the picture ever since Lily decided to jump in and “talk to the fish.”
Note to self: there is no nice way to say “you owe me five hundred bucks for a watch ruined by your aquatically challenged offspring.”
Needless to say, Lily learnt the hard way that fish only talk to those who can swim and I learnt the hard way, a Gucci watch will not survive an oceanic rescue mission. It felt as if my I.Q. was dropping at an alarming rate and after two weeks I was surprised I still had opposable thumbs.
Meanwhile, Lilly’s demonic behavior had progressed into some kind of bi polar disorder. One minute she would be a content picture of childhood bliss and the next she was screaming at me “YOU ARE A BITCH COW AND I AM SO FUCKING OFF RIGHT NOW.” Maximo, who was still perplexed about being in an English speaking country, became my little mute buddy. He and I spent hours playing in the mud while Lilly was off screaming at the cat. At least it kept her occupied. As long as she didn’t try to set it on fire again, I didn’t really care.
Despite all of this, when I took a reality check, I couldn’t really complain about living with London’s elite. Louisa (and of course Uncle Jimmy) were great and although her father spoke to me in third person (“Will the Nanny help with the washing?”) There were moments when I was starting to have a good time.
The highlight of these first few weeks had to be a trip to a third birthday party. Now, I am sure my third birthday (and the third birthday of most normal people) consisted of some fairy bread, a few presents and hearty verse of “happy birthday”.
Oh how times have changed.
Louisa’s friends were throwing this third birthday bash for their daughter and lived in the uber cool “I’m rich but don’t want to flaunt it too loudly” suburb of Clapham. The father was apparently some famous T.V. presenter (who I had never seen in my life) and his beautiful wife was a stay at home mum/interior designer. They floated on a cloud of marital bliss in their split level, earthy toned domestic heaven. It was again a beautiful home and when we entered the backyard and I nearly hyperventilated.
It turned out that Louisa’s friends were the young and beautiful of London, the society types you see splashed across the pages of “Hello” and “OK” magazine. In their twenties they would have been the London party crowd everyone wanted to be in, but now they all had kids and all the kids had nannies and all the nannies were far cooler than I could have ever been. I was officially in the twilight zone and to add insult to injury, this three year old’s birthday party was better than my twenty first!
There was a jumping castle, a ball pit, bubble machines, magicians, balloon tiers and the cake. The cake was an event in it’s self. Proudly displayed in a room filled with pink helium balloons, it was a two ft toadstool with life like fairies and gnomes dancing all around it. For all I knew they could have been real, I wouldn’t have put it past them. Next to this sugary statue of flour, was a pile of presents a mile high, each one larger and more elaborately wrapped than the rest. All of this, for a three year old who was more interested in the dirt on her toes than what was going on around her.
The afternoon was spent sitting in the sun, sipping champagne, laughing at each others gossip (“did you know Charlotte was having it off with Teresa’s gardener?”) and tasting the wonderful catered delights, vegetarian of course. (“Poppy can you pass the marinated tofu darling?”) It was a blissful stress free afternoon… FOR LOUISA. My afternoon was a wrestling match with fifty seven toddlers, stopping them from drowning in the authentic Buddhist fountain that flowed over the damn jumping castle. There seemed to be an impenetrable glass wall between the beautiful people and the Nannies and then the Nannies and me. I wasn’t setepping through the looking glass, I was looking through the glass that looked at the looking glass. Even the balloon man was having a better time than I was.
It was then that I realised that, in social situations, I was going to be viewed as “the hired help” and the hired help was getting a little pissed off. By the end of the day I had been patronized to the point where I was going to vomit my ying all over the yang of the giant Buddah. I was over it and really had no idea how I was going to make it through the next few weeks. On the train ride home I was about to give the “I don’t think this is going to work out” speech, when Lily and Maximo sleepily laid their heads in my lap. From that angle, the two of them almost looked quite sweet and Lilly’s devil horns seem to have retracted. Somewhat.
After apologising for an afternoon of her friend’s patronization Louisa filled me in on how she had gone upstairs to find the Mother of the birthday girl in tears over the fact her husband was snorting lines of coke at his daughter’s birthday party, how she would leave him but what would she do on her own and what would everyone think? As horrible as it was to hear, I found some comfort in the though that in this world of the happy and beautiful, things not always as they seem. And that Louisa, no matter how much she loved her friends, was very glad to be as far away from that world as possible.
Back in Sussex, after another ear splitting tantrum from Lily over a lost balloon, it was time for a party of our own. Louisa’s half sister Georgie was thirteen, had just finished what they call “middle school” and been accepted to the female equivalent of Eaton. As a reward, her parents had decided to throw a party for her and some of her close friends.
Georgie’s mum, Coglette, had been going on for days about how wonderful Georgie was, how smart, how focused, how athletic, how destined for excellence, how she had an “adorable” crush on Prince Harry and how perfect for royalty she was. With all the hype, I was ready to meet some impossible kinds of princess. The ridiculous thing was that it was that Georgie actually knew him and it was well within her sights to actually marry a prince. However, after one conversation with Georgie, it was obvious that it was Coglette striving for the excellence and Georgie who was happy to play hockey and read Harry Potter.
I had been assured that this part would be nowhere near as “over the top” as the one we had just witnessed. Yeah right.
We arrived back at the farm to find that a DJ was setting up the sound and lights for the out door dace party she was about to have. I am not kidding. I couldn’t get into the kitchen to open a can of soup because the caterers were busy serving up enough finger food to save a starving African village. Giggling teenage girls were running around the house arguing over who would wear what and who would kiss whom. I was getting the feeling this would be no “small gathering.” As I spent the next couple of hours upstairs getting Lily and Maximo to bed, cars came and went and the sound of voices grew the DJ started pumping, a rock and roll light show flashed across the grounds and I went down stairs to discover there was not one but two parties going on. One in the barn for Georgie and two hundred of her closest friends and one in the north garden for the two hundred friends’ parents. Now, the parents were not in for a night with a DJ, so what did they have? A jazz quintet! I did not know where to turn, from champagne and caviar in the gardens to the live band now taking the stage (yes, they had a stage) for the kids, I was at a complete loss for words!
Somewhere between coke sniffing Dads and screaming children I had gone from la la land to Lollapalooza. There were people everywhere. Thirteen year olds kissing in dark corners possible, drunk old men attempting grabbing my ass, in the pool, Uncle Jimmy and his brother Gavin (AKA JFK Jr.) were playing Marco Polo with a bunch of smitten teenage girls while I sat and ogled these beautiful brothers from the side! It was an all English, all ages, summertime orgy and I was afraid. I was very afraid.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Two days later we left “Daddy’s farm,” headed back to Uncle Jimmy’s flat in London and spent a pleasurable few days with some of Louisa’s more of Louisa’s buddies. Now, my friends get excited when we see Colin Farrell on the cover of TV week, but between them, Louisa’s friends had worked with him, dated him and represented him legally (along with Ben Elton, Annie Lennox and Robbie Williams.) Together they in the royal box at Wimbledon went to visit Madonna around the corner and sat in the garden, sipping champagne laughing gleefully about how beautiful and fabulous they all were. Of course, that’s what I assume they were laughing about, it was either that of the fact I fell in a rose bush when Hugh Grant walked past. Thankfully, Jimmy was close by to pull me out and tend to my wounds. (“Oh Jimmy that feels so much better, you really should have been a doctor.”) As fun and somewhat humiliating as it was my in depth look at life styles of the rich and the famous came to an end (or so I thought) as we moved north to Yorkshire to spend a few weeks with Louisa’s Mother and Step father. It was going to be a relaxing few weeks on their property to chill out before the baby arrived.
It was there, standing on platform nine at Kings Cross Station, shoving my face in a soggy sandwich that I met Louisa’s mother and step father. I don’t mean to blow my own horn, but I have always been great with parents. More specifically, mothers. Be it boyfriends, best friends or strangers on the street, I have always, no matter what, in any circumstance been able to win over their mothers. This was going to be no exception. Louisa’s Mum Nicky seemed lovely. As beautiful as her daughter, she was affectionate and friendly and immediately made me feel at ease. She was dressed immaculately and for someone with three kids in their thirties, she looked unbelievable. Her husband John seemed just as nice and both of them assured me I was going to have a “simply wonderful time on the estate.” I could use the facilities as I pleased, phone home whenever I liked and jump on line whenever I needed to. This was going to be fantastic. A few weeks in the countryside with the wonderful Louisa, her lovely mother and of course, Jimmy had promised to visit. Three soggy pies, two wet nappies and a cute Scotsman later, Nicky’s use of the words “Estate” and “facilities” were still hanging in my mind. Where on earth could we be going now? On the train Louisa had warned me that her mother’s house was “a bit large.” However, after my experiences on the farm, I had given up predicting anything this crazy family had to offer. (Except for that at some point in the day Lilly would tell me she hated me.) So as we drove through the hills and dales of Yorkshire in John and Nicky’s Audi, I braced myself for what was about to come next.
Little did I know that nothing could have ever prepared me for what I was about to see.
Sitting atop a hill, overlooking the northern country side was a massive, old world, four story, grey stone mansion. Now, I’m not talking about the Australian Toorak/Potts Point kind of mansions, forget that. I’m talking the Bronte, Jane Austin, “Secret Garden” with quarters for the servants and stables for the horses kind of mansion. This place was so huge, I am sure it was technically castle. After all, it did have a moat. Yes, you read correctly, a moat complete with happy white swans. It was something from another world, another age and I suddenly felt compelled to strap on a corset. This place was so incredibly vast; I was surprised there was no draw bridge. The eighty five hectares of gardens were open to the public but the house remained private… hence the need for a moat. There was a play ground, a pet cemetery, a tea house, lakes with little islands, fields filled with horses and sheep, a pine walk, statues (apparently stolen from the House of Commons during an “hilarious old boys Eaton prank”) and how could I forget the bird sanctuary. The area of the grounds it’s self had literally been a “Secret Garden.” Surrounded by high stone walls with a mysterious locked door, John’s father had finally knocked down the door some ten years before to discover a beautiful rose garden that had been left to run wild for generations. It was his decision to turn this area into the “Birds of Prey Falconry Center.” Now, don’t start picturing budgies and parrots because this was one hardcore birdhouse. Apart from the trained snowy white owls that would happily sit in anyone’s lap, there were giant barn owls, soaring eagles, trained condors and a pair of hungry looking vultures. The entire estate, named “Thorp Perrow” was like entering some kind of old English Neverland. I was waiting for Peter Pan to come and fly me away to the second star to the right. Hell, at that stage, I would have happily settled for Uncle Jimmy to come and fly me away to the upstairs bedroom.
“Surely Amy, these kiddies of yours must have been satisfied simply strolling through these extensive grounds?” I hear you ask! “Wouldn’t the wonderful world of flaura and fauna be enough to fill their days?” NO NO NO of course not! What child in their right mind would be entertained by eighty five hectares and a four story mansion? Lilly and Maximo not only had a custom made indoor heated pool, an entire wing of the house filled with every kind of toy and activity imaginable, but they both had their own silver, convertible, electric four wheel drives. They were big enough to fit in any fully grown ten year old (and one 23 year old Nanny who straddled it and did donuts until Lilly started to cry! “She’s learning to share!”) These kids had better cars than my friends in their thirties and to top it all of, they could parallel park.
In my opinion, Webster’s dictionary should read as follows:
Humbling: adj informal. To be humbled 1. Teaching a two year old to drive when you don’t know how yourself. 2. Chasing after small children in cars worth more than you could afford anytime in the next five years. 3. Having no choice but to smile and laugh when the shits repeatedly drive over your bare foot.
All of this was going on before I had even entered the house. As I walked through the front doors, I was met with a sprawling stone stair case. (Think “Titanic”) To the left was the library, decorated with dark red Hessian wall coverings, with a full size snooker table, marble fire place and shelves upon shelve of antique books, complete with a rolling ladder. To the right was the ballroom. Yep, that’s right the ballroom. I nearly cried at the sight of the Steinway under the enormous chandelier and before you ask, yes, I was busted dancing Frauline Maria style with my imaginary partner. Unfortunately the man of the house looks more like The Vicar of Dibley than Captain Von Trap.
If you stood at the foot of the staircase and looked the right you would see some imposing, burgundy curtains. Behind those, decorated with six foot Elephant tusks was the dining room. Well, one of the dining rooms. To the right were two toilets joined by one large washroom, all of which were tasteful decorated with several mounted animal heads. How wonderful is was to attempt to pee whilst being watched by a stuffed polar bear head wearing a pith helmet. This side of the ground floor was connected to the sun room, the green house and conservatory. Until then, I had always thought these were the same thing. Apparently not.
As if dead animals weren’t creepy enough, climbing up the staircase I discovered something else that would give me nightmares. (And no, it was not Lily.) Life size portraits of generations past, all in military uniforms, hung from the walls. Standing stiffly, in ridiculous poses with muskets and shot guns, their piercing eyes really did follow you around the room. Interspersed with these were portraits of the family dogs, all standing proudly with pheasants in their mouths and yet more shotguns by their side. Perhaps this was not the place to start rallying for the “anti gun” lobby.
My room was in the “Nursery Wing” and yes, it was exactly like the one Jane and Michael Banks had in Mary Poppins. Rocking horses, music boxes and tin wind up toys filled the play room and my bedroom window looked out across endless moors and fields of sheep and horses. My bed, covered with hand made quilts, although lovely to look at was so old it must have been built by Jesus. I had my own kitchen, but it was unnecessary as the cook, Avril (no not Lavigne) just buzzed me on the intercom to let me know my dinner was ready. Avril was a rather large, rather frightening Scottish woman. She was a fabulous cook with a dry sense of humour and a cigarette constantly hanging from her mouth. (That all too often ashed in the soup.) As funny as she was, I got the feeling if you messed up her knives she would start channeling the spirit of William Wallace. (You may take my ham…. But you’ll never take… my knives!!!)
After less than a day at “Thorp Perrow” it was obvious there was a lot more blue blood was gushing through this family than Louisa had let on. I knew she was a part of London’s fabulous, but I had no idea she was a member of one of THE aristocratic families of England. Their heritage wet so far back I was surprised there wasn’t Viking heads alongside the polar bear on the wall. Louisa also failed to inform me that Lily had inherited her multi dimensional personality from her Grandmother. It seemed that both Nicky and Lily shared the amazing ability to appear wonderful and caring in front of Louisa, but as soon as she left it was a whole other story. It seemed that unlimited use of the phone, fascilities and email, actually meant “Do what I say, no matter what Louisa asks you to do and I might let you go for a walk, or perhaps sit in the room that contains a phone or computer. It was made very clear ot me early on who ruled the roost in this chicken house. I had the choice each night to eat with John and Nicky in the main dining room. I would have loved to but there really wasn’t much room at the table what with the giant poles shoved up their asses. It was clear that no matter how good I was with parents, when it came to Grandparents, especially these ones, I had a big bag o’ nothin’. After one day, I had heard enough jokes about Eaton, Ascot and with “new money” to last a life time. Note to self: First impression mean absolutely nothing.
At this point, I need to add a disclaimer. Thankfully, Louisa was in no way like her parents. Her attitude to life was awesome and she was a delightful person, as were her brothers. If anyone in that family should have been breeding, it was her. (And of course, either of her brothers were more than welcome to “practice breeding” with me!) But I swear to god, had any of her children inherited their grandparent’s “old world” values, I would have been happy to allowed them to steer their four wheel drives directly into the moat. Unfortunately, as Louisa was so very pregnant she spent most of her days napping and her brothers were in London weekdays. So more often that not this left me trapped in a spooky house with Queen Nicky; High Priestess of Dual Personalities, he husband the Vicar of Dibley and their tyrannical chef from the clan of pastries, all telling me exactly how to look after silent Maximo and his bipolar sister.
By the end of two days, I was longing to be back at Daddy’s farm where, although they were groping me, at least I could have a conversation with the old men that dropped by. Thorp Perrow freaked me out with it’s long corridors, dead animals, unspoken rules and loaded conversations, it was an achievement just to survive breakfast! However, on the bright side, it was these days trapped in the castle of psychos that gave me some insight into this echelon of the British. As my Dad says, in Australia we call a spade a bloody shovel. But in England, everyone is so preoccupied with manners and appropriate behavior that conversations were more about what people didn’t say that what they did. I spent my days at Thorp Perrow attempting to read between the lines and decipher what people were actually trying to say. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I rarely worked out the inner meanings of these cryptic conversations. Then, on the rare occasions that I did, I was better off not knowing in the first place. It was then I learnt the full meaning of “ignorance is bliss”. No one wants to know the full meaning of John and Nicky’s “back door morning exercise.”
I was completely out of my depth, always conscious of my words, my behavior, hell even my dreams of Uncle Jimmy were becoming polite. I had no idea what to do. Was I to sit in the window sill and wait for Willoughby to arrive or get Dicken, explore the grounds and talk to birds? Unfortunately, more often than not I was too busy letting Maximo eat play dough and Lilly kick swans to decide.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
After recovering from the initial shock of “Thorp Perrow” I began to get my North Yorkshire groove happens (if there is such a thing.) I was starting to handle the daily challenges of frog catching, play dough sculptures and explaining why a squirrel does not enjoy being chased by a car. I had even started to chuckle at the staff jokes with the man of the house. Wasn’t it hilarious? They called him “Sir John.”
But no, once again, I was wrong. It was not a joke.
Sir John was a knight.
Now as far as I knew there were no round tables in the house, although by this stage nothing would have surprised me, and John had not actually been knighted himself. But, apparently in England you can be born with the right to be called Sir. This was not easy for me as I had never called anyone Sir in my life. Not even the policeman who pulled me over for “inappropriate behavior in a moving vehicle.” But it seemed the more I learnt about Sir John, the more bewildered I became, if that were possible. On one sunny afternoon, for some inexplicable reason, John decided we needed quality time together. Whilst driving through the countryside Sir John was pointing out the sights; “My good friend Lord Joppington lives to your right… See that castle over there? I own it. I’ve been trying to sell it but in the market isn’t too good for a castle right now. Know anyone who wants a castle?”
Once again, I was at a complete loss. Each new day brought with it a new and exciting level of bewilderment. I wanted to climb to the top of the bell tower (yes they had one) and scream “IS ANYONE OUT THERE? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? PLEASE SEND HELP. I’M TRAPPED IN A BRONTE NOVEL AND I CAN’T GET OUT”
In a house of twenty bedrooms (all with names like; the corner room, the panel room, the centre room) and twelve bathrooms lived seven people (and three dogs, an annoying parrot and a cat who was nearing death.) The place was simply too big and I found myself beginning to resent it. I was used to rowdy houses filled with gleeful noise and chaos, but here you could go an entire day without seeing anyone. All you would hear were distant cries of “Jolly hockey sticks! I’m off in the buggy to the tea room before these hounds drive me positively barmy!” When we were together, nobody spoke. Five intelligent and well traveled adults, sat in silence, reading papers, watching Mastermind and doing everything possible to avoid actual conversation! The only thing louder than the monotonous ticking of the grandfather clock were the voices in my head screaming “CAN THESE PEOPLE PLEASE SPEND SOME OF THEIR MONEY INVESTING IN CONVERSATIONAL SKILLS”
This was unfortunately, the pot calling the kettle black.
When your most in depth conversation of the day is with a two year old who speaks more Spanish than English, your brain quickly turns to mush. And although my vocabulary was shrinking at the speed of light I was delightfully surprised by how many life changing decisions can be made whilst conversing with the words “mine, no, alright, egg and pee pee.” I was starting to lose my mind a little and though the grounds were beautiful, there was only so many times you could look at the same flowers.
Correction: The same eighty five hectares of flowers.
So, when Louisa told me her two brothers, step brother and their girlfriends were all coming for the weekend, I was delighted. The possibility of adult conversations, perhaps even jokes, was endless! Not to mention people my own age AND the possibility of a pint in a pub. Yes, this was one excited little Nanny. So, on Friday they all arrived: My beloved Uncle Jimmy, his girlfriend Amelia (a breath of Nordic fresh air through this stuff old house), handsome Uncle Gavin, Step Uncle Henry (the twenty year old heir to the estate and Prince William look a like) and his girlfriend Jekka. This South African beauty had just been splashed across the tabloids for being “romantically linked” to the actual Prince William, but of course no one spoke about it because it wouldn’t have been nice. (Neither is cheating on your boyfriend with his mate the Prince of England either but that’s a whole other book.)
This mass arrival of the young and beautiful relatives from London was all too much. I felt as if I was at the British equivalent of Camp David with the Kennedy’s. All of them were “slow motion, air brushed” good looking, like they had just walked out of a deodorant commercial. All of them worked in successful businesses with successful partners and more often than not they popped off to Africa for a trekking holiday. Oh yes, of course they loved the great out doors. These people were fit fit fit. They all rowed, played polo, water polo, squash, hiked mountains, rode horses, did Pilates and entered triathlons. This was not a bad thing! Nicky (Louisa’s Mum) was a very cool grandma (when she wasn’t being a stuck up prude) she drove around the property on her motor bike and looked better than me in a bikini! This leads me to a question…
WHY ARE THE BRITISH ALWAYS NAKED?
Those people and their friends were forever getting their gear off. This is fine if you look like Hugh Grant, but the vast population of Britain does not! Of they were all sexy and French or exotic and Brazilian then it would be fine, but the English can’t quite get away with it. Now, I am not one to shy away form nudity, I am a child of Adam and Eve, but this particular weekend was just a bit too much.
In celebration of the tribal gathering, we all headed down to the near by river for a bbq with some mutual family friends. Upon arrival, all the young and pretty deodorant kids immediately leapt into the river in their underwear (no complaints here.) Much splashing and frolicking and shouts of “tally ho’s” ensued. Was I involved? I hear you ask? Was I getting my gear off and attempting to touch Uncle Jimmy inappropriately? NO! I was unpacking nappy bags, filling bottles with Ribena making sure Lilly didn’t have attack of the Dr. Jeckle/Mr. Hydes. I had been so preoccupied with my stupid job that when I finally turned around to get myself a drink I went into a state of shock. Waiting directly behind me for god knows how long has been a naked elderly man. Apparently named “Schtutsy”, he was holding a tray of bbq sausages and offering me “Some piping hot meat or perhaps some bbq balls?”
Under normal circumstances, with my on friends… yes funny. With a tacky, rich man who resembled Harold from Neighbors… deeply disturbing.
This was not your average bbq with a footy, and esky and some snags and burgers. There was a gourmet spread made by Avril, fine Chilean wines, being leapt cool by sitting in the river, four canoes, a kayak, a rubber dingy, four Arabian, harem-like tents, games of cricket, tennis and soccer and jazz music booming from the Audi’s stereos. Sounds pretty damn fun hey! Yes it was. ....For them. I was just wrapping my fingers around the neck of my new favorite wine when I heard the dreaded words “Amy, can you do me a favour?”
My afternoon was spent sitting on a riverbank, talking to no one, eating left overs, drinking Ribena, watching Lilly punch other children and Maximo put mud up his bum. It was as if I was always so close to being a part of their world but there was an invisible wall that divided us and left me licking the glass and making obscene gestures with my hands.
In a nutshell, I was bored. The people were no longer a novelty, they frustrated me. I was longing for a conversation with someone I something in common with. I was officially on the countdown to getting out of there and desperately trying to keep some grip on reality while I passed the dull hours talking to the voices in my head!
………………………………………………………………………………………………
During all the excitement of relatives, bbq’s and unnecessary nudity, it was very easy to forget the Louisa was actually pregnant and due to pop at any given moment. In the back of my head I was preparing myself for it all. I was ready for her sudden excruciating pain, screaming, hot water, towels and calling of ambulances. I wanted to save the day and be the hero. In the movies they are always in the middle of a supermarket, or at the opera or running a marathon and suddenly they double over in pain and jump into a cab driven by John Travolta, who takes them to the hospital, where Dr. Handsome delivers the baby, which of course turns out to be conjoined twins that never showed up on an ultrasound but thanks to some schmuk who hosts a current affairs show, they go through a massive operation, survive to sell the story to Women’s weekly. The mother marries John Travolta and their babies all sound like Bruce Willis.
Not at Thorp Perrow.
Louisa said to me over the dinner table on a Wednesday night; “Amy, I’ve decided to go to the hospital tomorrow night and have the baby.” I just stared at her and said I didn’t realise you could plan these things… did the baby let you know it was ready in morse code or did it just email you from cookedbaby@inthewomb.com?” (The resounding silence over the dinner table told me they didn’t think my joke was as funny as I did!) Louisa was ten days late and had decided to be induced.
So, Thursday night, after dinner, Louisa and John drove off to the hospital and returned thirty six hours later with a tiny, shaved and somewhat squashed monkey they claimed was their child. My question is… how do we know that? They just told us it was theirs! They could have spent thirty six hours baby stealing, or baby shopping, or opening a can of instant baby (just add water!) Wherever they found it and however predictable this little boy’s birth may have been, it does not alter the truly incredibly effect a new born has. He arrived there, not even twenty four hours old and I tell you, had I the power to capture an audience the way he did I would not have been working in North Yorkshire!!
Maximo, was completely intrigued, this was all new for him. Who was this strange creature and what did it have to do with him? Lilly, my bi-polar, demonic little friend was the happiest and softest I had seen since I met her. Now she had a new toy to look after and take care of. John, the father, stood outside like a 1950’s cowboy smoking his cigarettes and watching the sunset, smiling as a man only can when he has just helped create a new life. Here was a family I had been observing with a cynical eye, completely and utterly focused on the essence of life. Not a hockey stick or an electric car in sight.
Ah the miracle of life.
Not surprisingly, it was only a matter of hours before this selfless Dalai Lama bubble was burst by Lily screaming “you fuck off, I will lock you in a room and kill you, you fuck!” I swear to god that little menace spoke to me in ways I would never let a grown adult to, and what frustrated me more than anything was my complete inability to stop it. This was then topped off by dinner. Things were going smoothly until Nicky (Louisa’s mum) began speaking about staff who live on the property and were exceptionally good at “serving them.” , about people who “lived to serve.” I could not believe it. Technically, I was a part of the echelon of people about whom she was speaking, as if they were her dogs. (Don’t get me wrong, she loved her dogs, but they were never going to be anything but family pets.) I could not imagine what they said about me when I wasn’t in the room. I think it may have gone a little like this:
“Who is this Australian girl masquerading as a nanny? Who does she think she is, sitting on our antique sofa’s, drinking our wine and playing our Steinway? She certainly isn’t Mary Poppins. Why hasn’t she taken Lily and Maximo dancing on the rooftops with the chimney sweep? Why can’t she jump into chalk drawings on the path? And where the hell are those curtain lederhosen she promised us? If she doesn’t come up with a yodeling marionette show soon… she’s out!”
I had an almost schizophrenic relationship with them. Just when I thought I was making progress with Nicky or Sir John, after having an enjoyable meal or an interesting conversation, the next day was as if nothing had ever happened, as if I had dome something wrong. I felt like a flailing Frauline Maria and where oh where was my Captain Von Trapp? The closest I got was a flash of a naked sir John as I passed by his bathroom one morning. I still don’t know why I even looked. It was like a car wreck, I just couldn’t look away. I am sure the emotional scarring will be there forever.
However, the hilarity over the “baby name” debate kept me entertained for days! Louisa and John had a liking for Brazilian, Argentinean, and exotic names (hence Maximo… who was NEVER called Max.) So, at the top of their list was… Caitano. I thought I was going to hyperventilate with laughter when Nicky and Sir John heard this! The extreme control it must have taken to get them to smile when she said it deserved a medal. Of course as soon as she left the room Nicky was saying to me “Caitano… what in god’s name is she doing? That isn’t a name for a child! Maximo was bad enough. Dear lord why can’t she name her children Jane and Michael and get on with it?” And when Sir John and I were left alone in the room we took one look at each other and burst out laughing.
The name started to grow on me after a few days, but personally, one look at the baby and I wanted to call it Gollum! They didn’t appreciate this suggestion. Nor did they like Mable Xanadu, my chosen first born’s name I so selfishly offered to them to use. But no, once again Amy got a silent stare and raised eyebrow reaction. Excuse me for attempting to bring a little disco to these people’s lives! Although the though of Sir John in gold hot pants… the mind boggles.
It was getting to the end of our days in York and I was seeing a light at the end of the Tunnel, I was desperate to get out of there. I didn’t care where we went as long as it was out of the twilight zone.
And then a savior arrived at Thorp Perrow on the form of Sir John’s grand daughter Poppy and her nanny Liz. Louisa had said to me that she was an Aussie, lovely and we could hang out together. Me, being the cynical thing I had turned into out there, though to myself “oh, yeah. Just because she is Australian means we are going to be the best of buddies, and we can sit together playing the didgeridoo and eating vegemite.”
Well. Liz won me over in six words. “Want to go to the pub?”
What a difference a little company makes! Sitting in the local pub she turned to me and said “How are you finding it out here. You can be honest; I’ve been stuck out here before.” It was like a flood gate had been opened. Everything came pouring out. How bored I was, what shits Lily and Maximo were, how exhausting the long days were, how bizarre the household was. I went on and on and suddenly became worried that to a stranger I would sound a little melodramatic. But Liz quickly become my Nannying Yoda and told me she could see all that was going on and that I was not being melodramatic at all. And all I had to do was use the force to defeat the evil Lilly who surely must be the Darth Vader of four year olds.
I felt such a wave of relief I could hear music playing! When I shut my eyes I could see Michael Jackson and the children of the world singing “you are not alone!” But thankfully when I opened them again I was still in the Castle Arms being stared at because I was wearing fashion sometime after 1984.
Just as Liz and I decided to go home, to our surprise, Sir John and Chris (Liz’s boss) came to the pub to have a drink with us! Sir John shouted us all the top shelf booze and the four of us got pickled together. What an odd combination. Me, Liz (from remote Nth Queensland), Chris (who bore a strong resemblance to “Where’s Wally”) and Sir John (The richest man I have ever met who schlepped around in old green track suit pants, a green jumper with holes in it and red slippers.)
On our next day off, Sir John offered to take Liz, Poppy and I to Harrogate, where he had a meeting. We had a fantastic time, Harrogate was just beautiful and the shopping was fantastic. We gorged ourselves on cakes, coffees and croissants, spent way too much money on shoes and just laughed all day long. So much so, it was disheartening to see Sir John speeding up the main street to pick us up. Disheartening not only because it meant Liz was about to go back to London but also because it meant we had to cheat death and get back in a car with Sir John. I swear to god he drove like he was on speed. At least that would have explained his behavior of grouching when he got mud on the Audi and then prancing around naked except for a strategically placed red bow tie the next…
This brings me to another point. Despite all their nudity and swilling of expensive wine, these people never touched each other. They were drowning in air kisses, pats on the back and handshakes, but unless you were under the age of four, there was not a hint of affectionate touching. I just wanted someone to fly over from Australia and give me a cuddle! I was beginning to think I was the bubble boy nobody could touch. I wanted to stand and shout: “HEY! RICH WANKERS! THE NANNY IS NOT A LEPER!”
But I digress.
As Liz disappeared over the horizon, something was quickly coming towards us. Several horse floats were all coming in the direction of Thorp Perrow. Had the Kentucky Darby moved? Were these people so rich that Ascot came to them? Or was it (as I had suspected all along) the twelve horsemen of the apocalypse? Nope, nope and nope. Just when I though this place could not get any more ridiculous… The Yorkshire Pony Club came to stay. The Saddle club had moved into my backyard for a week and I was speechless. One hundred and forty upstanding (and overrated) young girls rode around on their precious ponies’ day in and day out. I fell asleep to the sounds of “Tally ho Daddy! When I’m older can you buy me a Porsche to match my pony?” It was a whirl wind of jodhpurs, riding boots and a very cute stable boy. Surrounded by an additional seventy terribly horsy teachers, I don’t think anyone looked as good shoveling hey as he did. He is the exception to the rule I then discovered: if you spend too much time with horses, you will begin to look like one. Not surprisingly, Lilly was obsessed with all of it and I had no problems whatsoever letting her watch the horses, while I watched the stable boy and Maximo got stuck under a fence.
However Lilly’s obsession did not end there. She wanted to ride the horses. Of course, her family obliged and it was then that I met Duffy the Shetland pony.
Duffy was a retired old pony that lived on Aunty Bolshie’s neighboring farm. Black and white patched with a droopy mane, he looked docile and calm as we arrived at his stable. Not only were Maximo and Lilly here to ride, but their cousins Tom and Isabel were along for the day as well. I had all the kids, who already new how to ride, to watch on my own and I was sure this would be an enjoyable day for everyone. Maximo went first and looked very cute in his little riding helmet. Duffy was very obliging and let me lead him around the paddock, while Maximo sat up the top looking very proud of himself. Lilly was next and although she threw yet another tantrum about not being able to ride on her own, she new the rules. Only those over five could do it all by them selves. So once again, Duffy happily wandered around in circles with me holding his reins. Then it was Isabel and Tom’s turn. They had been riding since they could walk, I was sure they could handle Duffy.
Again. I was wrong.
It turned out that, once left to his own devices with a young rider… Duffy was a psychopath. In the blink of an eye we had gone from a happy hobby farm to a jr. rodeo of hell! Tom had made a whip out of a stick and attempted to get Duffy to canter, instead, he started bucking like something had bit him on the ass. I would have gone in to help but I was too busy laughing at Tom trying to hold on. Once he finally fell off, he proceeded to get up, covered in mud and chase Duffy around throwing rocks and mud at him. I thought I was going to pass out. Not wanting to miss out on the action, Isabelle hopped up on a now very agitated Duffy and gave him a swift kick in side. It seemed to happen in slow motion. This little blonde ten year old went flying through the air and landed in a pile of mud. She was just getting to her feet when Duffy proceeded to trot right up to her and roll on top of her.
A horse whisperer I am not. It took me half an hour to get Maximo to stop hiding beneath the car.
And with that, our time at Thorp Perrow was over. And not a minute too soon! We waved goodbye to the swans and the servants and headed back to London. I was so glad to see Uncle Jimmy and his house I could have jumped for joy and the next week was absolute bliss. More of Louisa’s fabulous friends arrived and we all gushed over their wedding photos that had been published in Cosmopolitan because her Moroccan Ceremony had been that amazing. Days passed by hanging in the park with photographers, yoga teachers, TV stars and lawyers. These people were who I wanted to be in ten years time. Louisa, her brothers and their friends were awesome and the farewell picnic in Jimmy’s private “swipe card” garden was wonderful. Lovely food, lovely weather, lovely people and of course lovely that I was stuck attempting to prevent Lilly from ripping out other children’s hair.
What I resented was that too Louisa’s parents, I was the “hired help.” That while I worked for them, I would never be accepted as their equal. I finally came to the conclusion that they people were a dying breed, part of a world and a society that is in danger of becoming extinct. But I guess with all that money you can create whatever world you want!
One world I would never recreate is the world of out final train ride back to Sussex where we were to spend our final days together before they left for Chile and I returned to my life. It was the peak of summer, swelteringly hot and the train was packed. Louisa and John had an all out screaming match in the middle of the carriage when they realised we were at the wrong end of the train and we had to haul our six giant bags from one end to the other where Maximo proceeded to vomit all over the guy opposite us and I cut my finger and bled all over the floor. But… Uncle Jimmy made it all better by telling me I was always welcome at Cadogen Square. *Sigh*
And then… finally, it was then end of my Nannying adventure. I was sad to say goodbye to Louisa, I had loved hanging out with her and she was quite a remarkable woman. But, were there tears shed when I said goodbye to Maximo? Did I get a frog in the throat waving to John? Did I even look twice at Lily? YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING! I could not get to the train station fast enough. I now understand why Mary Poppins didn’t give a shit about leaving the kids at the end of the movie.
LESSONS LEARNT FROM NANNYING:
• Money can’t buy you happiness, a personality, fashion sense or a sense of humour. But it can buy you giant elephant tusks for your dining room. (Sorry, one of your dining rooms.)
• If you do suddenly come into wealth, DO NOT spend it on electric cars for your children. They will only cause unnecessary pain, anguish and heartache… for the nanny.
• Studying at Eaton does not guarantee you a fantastic life, but it gives you a wonderful opportunity to become a fantastic tosser.
• Never, ever attempt to work with small children when you have a hangover. The pain is indescribable.
• The most interesting people break the mold a little.
• Never come between a Scottish cook and her rising soufflé
• Be thankful for small mercies; a beer with a friendly face and an open ear.
