Since burning his friend’s Bar Mitzvah invitation, the thirteen-year-old has had his allowance suspended. For this reason, I’m intrigued when I see him flashing a fistful of fivers.
“Where’d you get that money?” I ask.
“I got a job.”
“Something” he says, as his Blackberry pings, “that’s work. Gotta go. I’m on call.”
He remains on call for several days. His phone doesn’t stop pinging.
But as business booms and his collection of fivers thickens, his energy and enthusiasm wanes. He looks tired and no longer welcomes the ping that prompts his industry.
“The money’s great, and so are the perks, but it’s too much for me to do on my own”, he announces wearily, “I want to hire an assistant. Are you interested?”
“What is it we do exactly?”
“You can start with Sophie Simpson in year 9. She wants thinner thighs and bigger tits on her Facebook Marbella beach album. And a smaller forehead.”
The Male Nanny