The Male Nanny works for a wealthy London family and spends much of his time dealing with an inquisitive and often obnoxious five-year-old. His wry and discerning first-hand accounts offer a unique insight into the private lives of London's elites - from family holidays to family therapy - and every lie in between. To keep up with The Male Nanny follow him on Twitter @themalenanny
'There has been a murder'
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It is common for me to discover the 5 year old peering into the fish bowl. She likes to watch them swim, and to wind them up by banging on the glass. I tend to leave her to it.
On Friday I spotted her with a fistful of fish food, ready to be chucked into the tank.
'No!' I shouted. 'Don’t give them that much food. Just a pinch.'
'Why?' She queried.
'Because if they eat too much, they will die,' I informed her, starkly.
On Saturday, I caught her again, with her fateful fist above the bowl and her shifty eyes scanning for witnesses.
'No!' I shouted. 'I told you yesterday: Just a pinch. Or they will die.'
I took the food and hid it, informing only the housekeeper of its whereabouts.
When I returned to the mansion on Monday, a melancholy mood hung in the air.
'There’s been a murder, said the housekeeper, without irony. 'The fish are dead. They were overfed.'
I looked to the five year old, who was reading, and seemed unusually placid.
'Who overfed the fish?' I asked her.
'Don’t know,' she replied, eyes fixed on her book.
I grabbed the pot of fish food and announced:
'I will be back in 10 minutes. I am taking this to the police station, to get finger prints.'
'I will come,' said the 5 year old, cool as a cucumber, throwing on her coat.
'Are we really going to the police station?' She asked, as we plodded through the grey November mist.
'Yes,' I replied, tightening my scarf officiously. 'The police can tell us who killed the fish, by checking the pot for finger prints.'
'Good,' she replied, her breath condensing and engulfing her head in the cold winter air.
The admission I expected never came, and here we were, stood outside the police station, wrapped up in our scarves, with our little pot of evidence.
'Okay. I am going to take this into the police station. Is there anything you want to tell me before I do?' I asked.
'Nope,' she replied, with an offensively defiant grin.
I looked at her smile and then into her eyes. I felt frustrated that I couldn't out-fox her, let alone begin to fathom her.
I looked down at her hands, which were perfectly still, but pink from the cold.
'Put your gloves on,' I told her.
And she did. And the finger-tips of those gloves were lightly coated with fragments of fish food.
The Male Nanny
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Check out Katy Hill's blog for another angle on parenting
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