The Male Nanny

Gamble

I am in the newsagents with the five-year-old, who is perusing the sweet shelf for her post-swim treat.

She is suddenly distracted by something in the corner of the shop.

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing at the source of her intrigue.

“The lottery,” I inform her.

“What’s the lottery?”

I explain the Lottery.

“Can I choose the lottery instead of a Kinder Egg?”

“Sure,” I say, “choose your numbers.”

“29 28 27 26 25 24 and 23. When do we know who’s won?”

“Later. You’ll be asleep.”

“Can I get a Kinder Egg too?”

“No.”

At half-past-nine, as I sit in the pub watching the football, I receive a phone call from the mansion.

“Hello?” I answer, tentatively.

No response. Just quick, heavy breathing.

“Hello?”

The breathing slows.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Suddenly, a voice emerges. It belongs to the five-year-old.

“Did we win the lottery?” she whispers.

“How did you manage to call me?!”

“I know your phone number.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“What is it then?”

She recites my phone number.

“Christ.”

“So did we win?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“Out.”

“What are you doing?”

“Go to bed!”

The Male Nanny