Alarm
“What’s this?” asks the five-year-old, proffering her palm.
“Christ, where did you get that!?”
“I found it. What is it?”
“Where did you find it!?”
“In someone’s coat.”
“Whose coat?”
“Someone’s”
“Give it to me.”
“No”.
“Hand it over, now.”
“No.”
“You stole it, it’s not yours, give it to me.”
“No. What is it?”
“This is your last chance, hand it over.”
“No.”
“Right.”
I walk towards her.
“I’ll press the button!”
“No no no, don’t press the button!” I plead, stopping in my tracks.
“Why? What does the button do?”
“Nothing, nothing, just don’t press it.”
“I really want to press it.”
“Please don’t press it.”
“Does it explode something?”
“No.”
“It must do something. I’m going to press it.”
“NO NO NO!”
She assesses my reaction with a furrowed brow, strokes the button, and asks:
“Can I have a Kit-Kat?”
She chows down the Kit-Kt.
She hovers a finger over the button and asks:
“Can we watch a DVD?”
We settle in front of the TV.
She sellotapes the device to her wrist and asks:
“Can I have beans on toast for dinner?”
After six threat-induced recitals of Eloise in Paris, she falls asleep. Sweat has loosened the tape and I delicately peel the device away from her skin. I sigh deeply and pat my damp forehead with my sleeve.
A while later I am dozing off on the chaise-lounge, when the thirteen-year-old crashes into the room with a smile.
“Look, I found a rape alarm. Be my bitch or I’ll set it off.”
The Male Nanny
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