How To Cope When Things Go Wrong As An Au Pair: Hard Lessons, Learned the Easy Way.

It had been a bad week in Pisa. I couldn't exactly say why, but something was wrong. Seeing the children busy with their mum I silently excused myself and backed out of the kitchen, shutting the door behind me.

I dragged myself to the deserted top floor of my hosts house and, thank god, found the bathroom free.

I leant my head against the glass window pane, took a few deep breaths and finally now I had some privacy I could confront the awful fact that for the past week I had been increasingly overcome by a feeling of numbness, a panicked, strung-out feeling.

I wrung my hands and soon enough I was crying in a way I haven't in a long time. Eventually I calmed down, agreed to stop feeling sorry for myself and resolved to answer some important questions...

..The type no au pair wants to ever have to ask:

1. Was I unhappy?

2. Why?

3. What could I do to fix this situation?

And I made sure I was brutally honest with myself. I confronted all the problems that had been building up and found I had to accept was that I simply was not a happy au pair, let alone person. Things were not going to way I planned in Pisa and now I had to find a way to fix them.

***

Pisa had started off beautifully. I had contacted the Pisa family while still in London, when desperate for a solution. My previous family in the Veneto Region had just informed me they could no longer have an au pair, for reasons they could not disclose. I was devastated but resolved to move on, try again, keep positive. 

Wanting both to resume au pairing asap and to see more of Tuscany I decided to accept this family's offer. I said I would be there within three days. There was no Skype interview, no nothing. In hindsight I regret this a great deal.

When I arrived in Pisa I was delighted to find my hostess was down-to earth, hardworking, honest and very generous. She had a no bullshit manner that I found different from my previous hostess, but reassuring in its own way. I knew we would get along well, we could be honest with each other. 

I also found her three children absolutely gorgeous. The eldest child was quite independent but charming, and the two little girls were very partial to me from the minute I walked in. 

The husband a good-humoured, genuine man was leaving soon, as he was a soldier required to work overseas for no less than 7 months at a time. He was making the most of his last few weeks with his family, but always had enough time to chat with me, help me out, and make me feel welcome.

I couldn't believe my luck. I felt happy, safe, and appreciated. I began to think more positively about the abrupt ending with the other family in veneto.

The location was also lovely. Green, tuscan fields, tall thin cyprus trees, fresh flowers, dramatic sunsets, medieval castles perched on cliffs...I thought I may have walked into a dream.

***

It was very emotional for the family when the father left. The eldest child in particular, still a boy but quickly growing up, found it hard to say goodbye to his Dad. The night before the man left my hostess gave me a big kiss on the cheek with tears in her eyes and told me how grateful she was that I was going to be here for the summer to help her. Without her husband it was very difficult, but now I was here. I felt thrilled that I was proving to be so useful, that I was needed so much. 

However the dynamic of the family changed after his departure. My hostess was obviously really very stressed. Every day she had one hundred and one things to do, always darting in and out of the house, picking the children up, dropping off things for work, grocery shopping, running errands. Sometimes I asked if there was anything I could do. Could I go to the shops for her? Pick up the kids from school? The answer was 9 times out of 10 no. I was puzzled but at this stage not too worried.

But as the weeks progressed it was the little things that bit by bit became hard to deal with. I began to feel uncomfortable but could not yet say why because the problems presented themselves in the disguise of blessings. The children thankfully loved me, but to my confused dismay/happiness it was not that they loved me too much that was the problem, but it was that they had unlimited access to me...

I was like a robotic nanny, available 7 days a week with no weekends, from midday to as late as 11pm at night. During the hours the children were alone with me I wanted to give my very best to them and we had some beautiful moments in the garden, running around, playing imaginary games, wrestling, tickling, doing arts and crafts, making daisy crowns, playing with the dog...it is tiring though to play with children for even an hour. Children seem to only have two settings: On and Off. And when they are On they are full-on and I began to wonder if there was an alternative way to be an au pair...one where I could be both fully available and the fun energetic au pair that was expected of me...

At the end of each day I was exhausted. The family went to bed very late each night, and the children would sometimes still be up and wanting my attention till as late as 10pm. Often as I tried to speak with friends on Facebook and Skype on the family computer, my sole window into the world outside the house I was staying in. Often I gave up trying to sustain an important conversation with a friend and caved into a disney youtube sing-a-long session. Another time I took to hiding in the laundry in order to make a Skype call. I was quickly discovered.

I would finally switch off the computer around 1am, having been able to get my fill of the world outside Pisa. My head would touch the pillow and like I had hit a switch I disappeared into a slumber so heavy I would not wake till as late as 12pm the next day.

When I did it was because the girls would burst into my room, jump onto my bed, run around my room, grabbing things, quarreling, bouncing on top of me still cocooned in my doona, eyes still gummed together. They would complain I slept for too long. Could I skip having a shower, it takes too long, they would ask; can we play before lunch? Can we play after lunch? Can we go to the park? Can we go to the park twice?? Why hadn't I gotten out of bed yet?? Why was I just lying there?? They would eventually pull me out of bed and a new long day would begin before I, the au pair robot, had even had time to recharge my batteries.

I never resented the children ever, I was never angry...never complained, never lost my temper. It was not their fault. They very innocently and even charmingly saw me as a very exciting new playmate, and my living with them was like an endless sleepover.

But I was becoming exhausted. With no official weekend or day off in sight, I began to slowly fall apart.  I was sleep deprived, physically exhausted and emotionally strung out. The children's once affectionate wrestling, tugging and chasing began to lose it's lustre. instead I felt smothered like one of those bunnies you see in a public petting zoo. The one that gets dunked by a voracious toddler into a bucket full of water while the child's mother is busy looking the other way.

 I had dreamed of coming to Tuscany, working during the week and traveling on the weekends to nearby locations...Siena, Lucca, San Gimignano, Volterra...but my hostess needed 'flexibility' aka, every day. So I stayed in the house with the three children to myself.

***

One day I got a call from an Italian friend I had made in Australia before I left for my travels. He was back in Italy and invited me to go with him to Genova or Cinque Terre. 

Instead of being excited at the prospect I was filled with anxiety. Every night that past week my hostess had been sombre, exhausted and had fought with the children. Despite the fact I was dying for a break I was too scared to ask her her for a weekend away...not when she so obviously needed help. It would be unfair of me, selfish I thought. 

I put off the invitation for as long as possible, desperately waiting for a chance to ask when the time was right. One night my hostess joked that when summer came around she would need me not just for afternoons but mornings too because the children would be on school holidays for three months. She joked she would be keeping me on a tight leash. I realized with horror that it might be a long time possibly months before I got the chance to go to Genova, let alone leave the house.

***

One day in Pisa I woke up with pain in my back. Prior to pisa I had  experienced kidney problems and telling my hostess about this we agreed I should go to the hospital. After spending 6 hours of waiting at the hospital it was concluded nothing was seriously wrong, probably trouble with a nerve in my back. Looking back on the incident my conclusion is the illness was a result of stress.

***

The next day my hostess had a big row with both her eldest children. She left the house for a long period of time, leaving me alone with the 7 year old girl for many hours. When my hostess returned she was too agitated to eat dinner. She hadn't been able to eat lunch either. I looked at her perched on the kitchen stool, starring numbly into her soup and saw she was rapidly losing weight. Her anxiety had rubbed off onto her children and they had been hard to handle that day, now they were bickering and neither of us had the the strength to get them to stop. I was feeling exhausted and worried. The mood in the house was grim.

***

The following day things got worse. I was alone in the house again with the children for many hours wanting to play endlessly. I wondered how it was that I was so tired but had barely done anything the last few days. That evening it struck me that I hadn't left the house except for the hospital in more than a week. When my hostess returned that afternoon she was once again agitated and frustrated due to problems at work. She became easily irritated that I had left the front door open and furthermore angry that the expensive vacuum cleaner appeared to be broken. I had been the last one to use it, so it was implied I was responsible.

When things quietened down after a sombre dinner I went upstairs hoping for some time to myself with my book. I was only a page in when they children found me, they came tumbling into my room, wanting to play. I looked at the time, it was 9:30pm.

Half an hour later, miserable and frustrated, I had shaken the children off and desperately wanted to talk to someone my own age. In Pisa so far my only company had been the children of the family, all under the age of 13. However I had no privacy to make a call as the kitchen was occupied, the lounge room was occupied and upstairs had no wifi. I was bending down to pick up the little one pulling at my skirt when I was accidentally struck in the face by the 7 year old. She and her brother were chasing each other around the house and I got stuck in the middle of the two, surrounded by flailing arms and legs. She apologized and I reassured her it was nothing. It was just a small cut and not painful but long repressed tears stung my eyes.

I sat down at the computer once again and in between disney song sessions I did managed to message a friend on Skype and he was alarmed by how depressed I was. He reminded me of why I went to Italy in the first place: to have a holiday and see the beautiful country...to enjoy myself. He told me I had to be strong and tell my hostess I was unhappy, see if we could fix this problem.

After talking to my friend I decided that all I needed to say was that:

1. I was stressed:
2.  Because I felt I was working very long hours a day and did not have any days off
3. Would it be possible to arrange for me to have at least one day off a week?

I had a long sleepless night. The next morning, full of anxiety I took a deep breath and spoke to my hostess. Unfortunately a compromise could not be reached. I was given another week to stay in the house till I found another family. I was asked to stay away from the children and not talk to them except for at mealtimes. I asked why and was told it was for 'their protection,' something I still cannot understand. The order was unnecessary anyway because the children barely spoke to me. The family had a history of au pairs leaving the house on bad terms, and now to the children I was just like all the other quitters...I was a disappointment.

Remaining in the house as this unwanted guest was unbearable so I called my friend in Genova, asked him if I could stay for a few days and arranged to leave the following morning. Once again I never got a chance to say goodbye to the children of my au pair family. The experience was in short devastating.

***

For every Au pair I guess it is different but for me all I know is that I benefit the most from separating my working life, and my free time. In my working life I am someone who enjoys spontaneity but needs structure. I like to know when I start work and when I finish as this allows me to then pace myself and give 100% to my job for all the hours in between.

In Pisa however I was essentially always working, perpetually on duty but my hostess disagreed. She didn't understand why I felt that way as I had all mornings to myself. She wanted me to feel like a family member an older sister, not an employer anyway. We didn't need 'days off' or 'working hours' in this relationship.

I tried to explain to her that I didn't know that such a sibling existed, one who was willing to be a carer seven days a week with no chance to hang out with friends, to relax, to go on holiday, to have privacy, time in their room to themselves. I also stopped myself from adding that a sibling can yell at her brothers and sisters to get out of her room...I couldn't do that to the children (and wouldn't want to) and i was pretty positive my hostess wouldn't want me to either.

Furthermore to make the most of my mornings (e.g. by going to Firenze) as she suggested meant having to get up at 6am as the train took nearly 2 hours. On top of that the fare was up to 20 euros. I couldn't justify spending that much without giving myself at least 4 or 5 hours in Firenze, not on a salary of 65 euros a week. But every night I was needed till late. I could not survive on 6 hours sleep...I wanted to save my money for a more rewarding day off, a chance to spend a whole day or two in Firenze. I was trapped in a cycle of spending money on trips that were not worth the expenditure, but not ever having the chance to travel to somewhere for a worthwhile period of time.

My hostess still did not understand. Was I upset because the girls woke me up this morning? is that what this was all about? She told me it was impossible to stop the girls from waking me up in the morning. She had asked them not to once, but they wouldn't listen to her so she had given up stopping them. I tried to explain that I wasn't angry at the girls, it would be stupid to be angry at them...I was upset because my hostess couldn't and didn't think it necessary to protect my needs for privacy and rest.

It was no good. We just could not understand each other. My hostess was sure her understanding of how au pairing works was best, because it suited her, it was what she needed. And in the end I acknowledged the fact too. It was the best way for her, but it was not the best way for me.

***

If there is another way to approach my work than I am not sure what it is. If it is to become a half-assed au pair, plonking the kids down in front of the tv all day than that is just not what I do...not when I am earning money, not when someone is doing me the great honor of keeping me in their home, feeding me, hosting me. But the flip side is that I also cannot simply work like a robot, or be expected to give up what means most to me: my freedom.

The reality of my situation in Pisa was that my hostess was a strongly independent and active woman who needed me to be an immobile carer for her family, an ever-present figure with whom to safely leave her children. In short she needed a replacement figure for her husband, a parent figure.

And I guess this is what hurt so much about the situation. She was a free-spirit who spoke often about the virtues of being independent but could not recognize my need for the same freedoms. The Pisa experience had become a matter of deciding who's freedom I cared about the most: mine or hers. And devastatingly I concluded I had to protect my own, not simply out of selfishness but because I was undeniably suffering.

What also hurt was that I had been a darn good au pair. She was amazed by my rapport with the children, thankful for my calm and can-do attitude (even when inside I was screaming NOOOO) and told me about the awful au pairs she had had before...and yet she still could not think about altering her understanding of what constituted the best au pair arrangement, come up with a weekly schedule or give me one day off. Even at risk of losing me, her most reliable and successful  au pair so far.

***

With my two au pair experiences combined I have learned some hard lessons.

1. If you are unhappy this is a truth, it is important to deal with it and you must no matter how scary it seems

2. With au pairing there are two kinds of benefits you can expect from that job: freedom or money

3. If you are really lucky, as I was with my first family, you can even find a family that can provide you with both. And when that happens, you are very lucky and happy indeed.


And I guess that is why I titled this post 'Hard Lessons Learned the Easy Way.' Telling the truth and being honest are in reality such simple actions to complete. Yet when it comes to actually opening our mouths and uttering the words 'I am not happy,' it takes so much courage, so much belief in yourself.

So I did learn hard lessons the easy way, the simple way: by telling the truth.

***

As for what I am doing now,  have been living with my amazing friend and his beautiful family in Genova for the past month and I cannot begin to describe how wonderful the experience has been.

We have been to Cinque Terre by motorbike, spent happy weekends cosily tucked behind the mountains of Genova in the little town of Bandita in the Piemonte region. We have made gnocchi from scratch, partied, learned each other's languages and given each other opportunities we didn't have before. I have made more friends in the space of a month than I have made in the last 4 months au pairing. I feel happy, I am well and loving Italy.

Time has eased the pain of what happened in Pisa but my hesitation to au pair again remains. I feel that au pairing has broken my heart twice now, in two different ways. I have so far rejected another two au pairing job offers...and am now in talks about another au pair job in Rome. Whether I will accept it I am unsure.

I partly want to accept the job in Rome not only because they are a family new to the concept of au pairing and incredibly keen to know what best suits me; they see me as a person, not as a toy or robot. I also want to go because I am desperate to give au pairing another shot. I want to know that I can do it again, and do it well. And I guess most of all I want another chance to finally have a happy ending. 

'Pertanza La Strega': The Day I Became A Real Witch

In Pisa the children loved playing in the garden which was a large green sea surrounding the house like a moat, dotted with a sea spray of white daisies. We had parks on either side of the house too. The park on the left being mainly composed of wood and bare metals was called 'Parco Brutto', the ugly park, while the park on the left composed of brightly coloured plastic noodles and pipes was called 'Parco Bello.'

One of their favorite games to play in the park was the 'Troppo game' where I would hold onto the back of the child's swing and ask 'Troppo?' (too much?) as I pulled it back, gradually higher and higher. Of course their answer was always 'No! Non Troppo!!' Then finally when I couldn't hold back anymore I would count to three and release the swing.

Many times we charged into the park through the knee length grass and daisies like the Scotts in Braveheart, the children roaring 'PLAY THE TROPPO, PLAY.' It was exhausting, but it built up my kudos with the kids faster than anything else I did.

It was during a backbreaking session of Play the Troppo that I made a language faux pas. It was still early on in my stay in Pisa and I was still coming to terms with the Italian language, something I can only liken to catching a squirming but delicious salmon. It is pretty darn hard to get a hold of but the potential of realizing it keeps you hanging on.

After nearly ten sessions of the troppo game I was ready to collapse. I told S-: 'Ok, finito troppo-play-the-tropp! I am exhausted! Tu sei troppo pertanza!' The little girl looked at me then burst into laughter.

What I had meant to say was: 'no more! you and the swing are too heavy', however the word I had meant to use was perzante, not Pertanza...which not only is gibberish in Italian, but sounds ridiculous too.

S- found it so funny she found it necessary to tell everyone, her parents, her brother, her 2 year old sister, even the dog. When she told her father, laughing with tears in her eyes, he choked back a chuckle, but insisted it wasn't such a big deal to save me some embarrassment. But when he turned back to his painting I saw him shake his head and chortle to himself.

After that point I became Pertanza La Strega: Pertanza the witch.

Playing with children can be very amusing, particularly I find with children under the age of four. They are remarkably clever but still able to lose themselves completely in the moment of the game. The girls S (7yrs) and J (2yrs) loved nothing more than being chased around their spacious garden, and sometimes would become so immersed in the game they would lose track of reality. The little one J- in particular found herself swept up into the moment emotionally often with hilarious consequences.

One play session when I, Pertanza the witch, was chasing them around the garden 'in order to eat them' (more like tickle them) I managed to grab hold of the speedy S and was treating her to a tickling session as she laughed and kicked for freedom.  While doing so I felt something tapping me sharply on the back. I turned to find the 2 year old hitting me with a little purple spade, a look of deadly determination and anger on her face. Despite her tiny stature she was actually managing to hurt me! Ooops. She was obviously taking her sister's capture a bit too seriously.

'Stop. stop, stop!' I ordered.

I paused the game, dropped my witch persona and calmly asked the two girls if they understood that we were just playing a game. We were just pretending. I wasn't really a witch and they weren't really going to be eaten by anyone...just a game!

They nodded and the game resumed. S- scrambled free but after ten minutes or so I had soon recaptured her with my outstretched arms, shaped into giant witch's claws. She shrieked but to my horror she was immediately joined by the distressed wails of her little sister. I turned around once again to find the little one pulling hard at my jumper desperately trying to pry me off her entrapped older sister, tears streaming down her bright red terrified/enraged face. She reminded me of a desperate Sam Gamgee, trying to save his beloved Frodo from Gollum.

'STOP! STOP! STOP!' I cried once more.

I paused the game and picked the little one up. I wiped her tears away and asked her again if she understood that we were just playing! There was no need to be scared or to cry! Solo Giocare! Just playing! I wasn't really going to eat her sister! Just tickle her! She nodded and smiled sheepishly.

I put her down with a little hug and the game resumed, but once again...things ended in tears. Patting her on the back to calm her down from the experience of nearly being 'eaten by Pertanza the witch' I meekly suggested we all just watch Peppa Pig for a while on TV to calm down.

It was enough Pertanza for one day for everyone.

For the little one I found she more than often took her games a bit too seriously, bless her little heart. She also enjoyed the 'Mio, Mia' game where she would point to one of her beloved items, either her Mum, her dog, her barbie and declare it hers with an assertive 'Mio!' or 'Mia!' It was always meant as a challenge, she expected me to then assume my witch persona and contradict her.

'Noooo!' I would hiss, and grab the confused family dog zinka. 'Mio!!!' The dog is MINE!' However I began to find ways to avoid this game when the poor little girl started taking things too seriously. One day when I insisted that no, the family dog was mine she promptly burst into tears.

Once again I solved the dramatic situation with some episodes of good ol' Peppa Pig.  And from then on when she would declare the dog hers, to her vast disappointment I would simply agree.

Receiving A Very Unexpected Email In London: The Consequences, The Perils And Wonders Of Being An Au Pair, New Beginnings

I was in Oxford the night I received the unexpected email from my hostess. I took the opportunity to leave London for a day and night to visit a friend at Somerville College where she studies.

That evening when my friend kindly offered me a chance to use her computer to check my email I found an rather ominous message from my hostess of the noble family:

Hello M-!
How are You? I hope You are well and enjoying Your travel.

I write You because I need to tell You some important changements that we are compelled to do in the next days. Let me know via-email if You check Your emails and have read this msg, so that I'll write You again to this e-mail address and explain all.

Thank You and take care

By this stage of my trip I was highly aware that things can get easily and harmlessly lost in translation,  particularly when it involves indirect communication such as email and someone for whom english is a second language. I have found when trying to use a language other than our own we can often find ourselves swinging either way on the vocab/grammar pedulum, easily coming across too formal or too casual. For example the subject of the message was titled: 'Changements'. So despite her grave tone I decided not to be concerned and thought I had some idea what it might be about anyway. She had mentioned to me that she and her husband would be doing some travel the following month. So for a few days here and there it was going to be just the four boys and me...oh and the beloved housemaid who never liked me very much (Please refer to blog post 'The House Maid vs.The  Au Pair: What To Do When The House Maid Clearly Wants you Dead').

I replied back with whatever came into my head first letting her know I was within reach email-wise:


Hi - !

Yes I am very well! And really enjoying London! How are you and the boys? I won't lie I am missing you all haha

oh I see, well yes please tell me what these changes may be. So please do go on!

hope you and the family are all well!
M-

I only got the opportunity to read her next message once I had arrived back in London late the following evening. I was in a really seedy internet cafe in Clapton Ponds, East London. For some reason despite the cafe being virtually empty the manager decided to lodge me in between the two sole male customers, one on youtube and the other...I didn't want to look to closely. I crammed in between them at my little desk and began to read the following:

Good morning M-! 
I'm very happy that you are enjoying your London trip a lot! 
We are having a beautiful holiday too. My husband and my children are very well too, thank You.

M-, it isn’t easy for me to write these few lines to You, but I have to do it. Something has changed for me in these days and I thought a lot about this new situation that I have to face.

Honestly, I didn’t know what to do at first. When I knew the news I was surprised, disappointed and sad, because I could never immagine it would have happened to me. But it happened. I thought a lot what to do and how to face it at the best and I have found an answer.

It’s very hard for me to write You what I’m going to tell You now, but I have to. M-, sorry if I tell You this, but we cannot guest You the next days till when we had planned (starting of April). Don’t worry: my decision doesn’t concern the way You helped me or behaved with the children! Be sure of this. My decision concerns something else that involves me, first, and then my family. I don’t have the courage to tell You what it is, because it’s too hard for me now. Maybe in the future we’ll talk about it…

- Are You able to stay in Your cousin’s house for the next days, until You find another family that guests You? (You told me that in London You stayed in Your cousin’s house)

- Did You leave some luggages in my home or did You bring everything with You? If You have left something, I can pack everything and send all to You in England. Or You prefer to come back, pack all Your things and then leave?

- M-, please, if You come back in my house, I need You to leave within Tuesday 11th of March. Please, forgive me if I seem so unpolite with You, but believe me that all it is caused by something new and absolutely unexpected, that I would have never known before, that I would have never had to face before…

When I finished the email I re-read it, then again and again, trying to work out what it meant. A thousand questions raced through my mind as I held back tears. Was someone ill? But she said they are all fine...this was not the email of someone who had just lost a family member or been diagnosed with an incurable disease. What could have happened to warrant her asking me not to return to their home? My first conclusion was maybe her reassurance was just pretense and I had done something unforgivable, something I could not fathom. I wracked my mind but came up with nothing. My hostess and I had been close, she told me many times how grateful and happy she had been with me and that the boys liked me. She also took care of me when the maid wanted to get me kicked out of the house. I was so confused. I had to get some answers, so still trying to wrap my head around what I had just read I replied:

H-, I do not know what to say.

I am very shocked and worried. Have I done anything wrong? Is this to do with me at all because if it is I would like to know...if I have done anything I promise it was never done intentionally or meant to hurt anyone...I am quite distressed, forgive me. And M- I confess I am very distressed I will not get to say goodbye to your four boys...because the truth is I love them very much. 

But also are you alright? Other than the fact you are my employer I do consider you also like a friend to me...you have been so kind to me and caring. I need to know you are ok just as any friend wants to know their friends are safe and well. I know you do not wish to share whatever has happened with me, but please let me know if I can help you! Or talk to you if you need....I am also sad I may not get the chance to say goodbye to you in person. I am sorry, I am not saying these things to make you feel guilty, I promise, I am simply expressing my fondness for the experience your family has given me and my sadness it has to end in this way.

So yes, most of my things are still in your house...I can come by your house and quickly get my things, or else I could wait until I have confirmed things with my next family, and you could send my things there. 

Desperate to hear your reply,

M-

My Cousin arrived home to her flat that night to find me looking lost and dishevelled. I told her the whole story and she was flabbergasted. We kept coming back to the same question, round and round in circles...'What happened??' Suddenly I got a notification, I had received another email. 'Oh my god, what does it say?' my cousin asked. I read eagerly:

Dear M-, 
I'm very sorry I distressed You: I really didn't want it!

Don't worry about the days You stayed with us: You have been so good with the children and You helped me a lot in our everyday life!

Thank You for offering me Your help: I did appreciate it a lot, but unfortunately You cannot do anything for me now. Instead I'm very worried about You. I hope I didn't put You too much in trouble and if there is something I can do for You, please tell me.

It would be very nice to see You again and say "goodbye", but...it can be also very stressful for You to come and go in two days and I don't want to distress You more than what I have already done.

Do You prefer to stay in London until You choose a new family? In this case I'll send You Your luggages to London or to Your new family, as You like.

At the time all the positives in that message did not seem to sink in. All I could think about was that polite as she was she clearly preferred me to not come back to the house...not even to say goodbye. My cousin and I mused over the strangeness of it all late into the night, enthusiastically coming up with all kinds of theories. Everything from abduction to court cases were thought of and weighed up on the probability scale, but it was just no good, guessing is just guessing.

'People are strange...there is no point dwelling on it, you will probably never know what happened,' my cousin advised. I agreed, but remained despondant, and I admit hurt and angry.

I ended up staying in London for another three days to give me time to change my plans, during which through good luck I was contacted again by a family in Pisa I had wanted to stay with. The girl they had been communicating with had suddenly stopped replying and now they were looking to see if I was still interested. I was, and booked a new flight and set of trains to get me there. The extra days in London breezed by as I spent them doing the things I had thought I would have to save for next time: Kew Gardens, The Tates, a stroll through Chelsea. Then suddenly as if I had teleported myself there I found myself tired, still a bit stunned, with a new family in Pisa. And after three weeks my luggage arrived at my new locale with a generous sum of money to compensate me for any inconveniences.

This all happened more than a month ago. The last few blog posts I made in relation to my previous family have been published in retrospect. I didn't want to move on without telling those stories which remain unique, happy and precious, despite the ending.

*** 

The incident was a strange one, really strange. The only thing I could take comfort in was the fact that my hostesses' decision had not been to do with some failure on my part as an au pair. Furthermore our email correspondance since has been affectionate and sincere. But it has highlighted for me some important facts about au pairing.

The au pair-employer relationship is not one forged on a legally bound contract. There are no regulations or rules other than what you and your host agree upon. This means that 

the relationship is one that is dependant on mutual trust and a shared interest in the welfare and happiness of the children involved. I guess this is exactly what made this change so painful: I trusted this family with my health, safety and happiness, and I treasured their children. Then suddenly I found myself a stranger who was no longer welcome in their home. In retrospect I have had to come to terms with the fact that maybe I trusted them more than I should have. 

The thing is when you are close to your host family, when the respect and affection is mutual, you really do feel like a family member. This family showed me amazing generosity, for example despite my protests they even payed for medical expenses of mine. They allowed me freedom, paid me very generously in relation to my working hours and treated me as a beloved but independent daughter. I had family dinner with them every night. 

But I guess what you have to remember when you are an au pair is that you may feel like you are part of the family, but you are not. At the end of the day there was no stopping my hosts from doing what they did, no head office to regulate against such a decision, and even though it may have been done for a very good reason (I lean towards believing it was) it was a sudden, alarming and painful end to a relationship I had begun to consider sacred. I thought I was family, but I was not. 

The main thing sadness that lingers with me now is that I never returned to that beautiful palace or got to hug and kiss those four beautiful cheeky boys goodbye. My playdough companions, fellow lego architects, mess makers, garden explorers. I loved them, I honestly did. I wasn't their mother or sister, but I felt a protectivness of them that would have seen me do anything for their continued safety and innocence. I asked my now ex-hostess what she told them had happened, where and why I had gone. She told them I had moved on to care for another family now. At least it wasn't exactly a lie. 

***

Yesterday here in Pisa, as I helped the little two year old of my new family pull on her jacket, something occurred to me. Before she ran off I pulled out the brand label from under the collar, and yep, it was United Colours of Benetton. It was the exact same ice-blue padded jacket my previous little one had worn in Veneto. How many times had I helped stuff his little four year old arms into that thing so he could make his hasty exit into the garden to play? And now I was doing the same for her. The jacket has now become for me a symbol of continuity. Some things have changed: a different family, relationships and personalities, chores, location, and oportunities. But as the jacket reminds me there will always be some things that remain the same, such as the joy of becoming loved and needed by beautiful children. And that which stays the same can be both comforting and bittersweet. 

How A Bad Day In London Transformed Me Into David Sedaris' New Publicist

I should probably write to David Sedaris and thank him for making me his new official publicist. It is not exactly official, but I think it may as well be.

It seems my keen readers ears are not as good as my keen readers eyes because despite his success and regular presence on bestseller lists I can only remember catching references to Sedaris' work a handful of times. Once in the car a radio interview was being conducted with Sedaris but this was ages ago, possibly years. But I still remember the instanteous smile he put on my face when he spoke about how his soft lilting voice is often mistaken to be female when talking on the phone.

Strangely enough I have seen his book 'Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk' on the shelves of many Italian book shops in the english section. I always gave it a tentative look, not quite sure why it was ringing a bell...'that funny guy I once heard of maybe, probably wrote it..might be a good book...but this is all too vague for me to make an informed decision...'

I finally gathered the momentum to buy 'Dress Your Family in Cuduroy and Denim' when I was in London a few weeks ago The purchase came about during a moment of extreme vulnerability.

My day began in Bloomsbury, the purpose was to visit the Britsh Museum but the experience proved to be somewhat anti-climactic. I have heard for so many years about how amazing it is that this became a case where the reality was left with no choice but to wilt in comparison to the imaginings. The journey around the gigantuan building had a checklist feel about it, because to my surprise there were no surprises! Everything I had been told was there....the Pantheon Marbles, the sensational Egyptian collection, etc,...as I encountered each item I had been told to look out for, my attempts to engage with it were thwarted by the apearance of a mental Tick symbol, comically large and green, lighting up with a ping noise. Maybe these items I had busted my gut studying at high school were triggering some negative mood associations... Maybe I was just very tired that day.

After the museum I resumed my second favourite activity in foreign countries, eating. With the first being spending money, I am a dangerous commodity. Mostly to myself. While I munched away on Pret A Manger yoghurt and museli I flipped through my guide book only to realise that Bloomsbury did not hold as much interest as I had predicted the night before.

I became annoyingly indecisive,  umm-ing and ahh-ing about everything my little Travel London book suggested. By the time I decided to visit the Charles Dickens Museum and had actually managed to find it, it was late afternoon. Soon things would be shutting. I was wasting my day...

After I then quite illogically decided to get to the Borough Markets, which involved a long bus trip followed by an even longer walk due to me getting off two stops early. Once I got there though I was a very happy camper.  I would go back to the markets another two times before the end of my trip. I tucked into a delicious piece of Banoffee pie, feeling so incredibly British in a Love-Actually-wannabee-Keira-knightley sort of way. I hoped maybe with the success of the markets I had made ammends with my indecision.

It was only once I was heading over London Bridge, feeling wonderful and Bridget-Jonsey, that I realised with a jolt that 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' was no longer lodged under my arm. I had borrowed the copy from my cousin's book shelf that morning and been reading it throughout the day. I only had one chapter left.

As is typical of me I went into full panic mode. If my house was to burn down I can honestly promise to be uber calm throughout the occasion, taking charge, giving orders even making tea for distressed passersby. If however something relatively minor happens on the scale of life and death, such as losing a coat, forgetting an appointment...I am inconsolable. If I lose an item belonging to someone else I seriously contemplate running away to Cuba. I filed a lost property report for the book at the markets reception with the desperation of a mother who has lost a child in a crowd and moped my way back across the bridge, now feeling like Bridget but in all the bad ways.

After making it halfway on foot to the tower of london and realising that it was 4pm and it would be closed. So I backtracked and made my way through cheapside, feeling Elizabeth-Bennetty, to St. Pauls Cathedral. I stopped along the way in a few shops, taking my time. I was just leaving a shopping complex when the cathedral came into full view. I reached for my camera in my bag...my hand rummaged around, finding lipglosses, bus tickets, a hair brush, water bottle, coin purses...no camera. My breathing became rapid and I muttered 'stay calm, stay calm, stay calm' like an incantation. I emptied my bag straight onto the pavement as shoppers stared.

I slumped against a glass wall, all my belongings spread around me... everything except for my camera. My camera with a 32 gigabyte SD card containing 4 months worth of travel photos.

A female police cyclist passing by with her bike noticed me and when we made eye contact there must have been something very pathetic about my face because she came right over and bent down next to me.

"Hello dear,  is everything ok?"

My bottom lip literally wobbled and I started bawling like a child. I told her the whole tale in hysterical blubberings, starting from the point when I lost my cousin's book. She was so nice throughout my ranting. So sympathetic, nodding knowingly, a kind grimace of solidarity here and there...she even told me a story about how she recently lost an important set of keys and how angry she was with herself. She then asked me my name and told me her's was Elise. She took down all the details of what happened and gave me the number of the station she worked at so I could call in to see if the camera had been found and handed in. She encouraged me to retrace my steps in the meantime.

"But Elise, is there even any point?!" I groaned, fed up with the cruel, cruel world, aka my own chronic absentmindedness. She told me it wouldn't hurt.

I thanked her profusely and followed her advice. All I can say is thank god I did because I had only left my camera on the counter of the most recent shop I had been in. The sales assisstant 'aww-ed' when I was clasped the camera to my breast and I cried sloppy completely indulgent tears of relief, disturbing londoners trying to buy stationery. I headed onwards to St. Pauls, still relieved and weepy when I ran into Elise again! She was on her bike and told me she was been circling around hoping to see me and ask if I had had any luck. She was so happy for me I had found my camera and in that moment I really just wanted to hug her. I thanked her again a hundred times, not only for her help but for her understanding.

It was at the end of this day, of highs and lows, that I decided I needed only one thing to calm me down and that was to buy a good book. I took a bus to Angel Islington and quickly found a discount book supplier. I bought another copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower to replace the one I went and lost on my cousin, and then perused the shelves for something that would cheer me up and make me laugh. That's when I found 'Dress Your Family'. It wasn't as cheap as I would have liked,  but oh man, was it worth every cent.

It was on the bus back to my cousin's house in East London as I started reading that my new voluntary work as David Sedaris' publicist began. Since then I have laughed on buses, planes, trains; in baths, kitchens, beds, cafes, and parks. Once I had laughed my way through 'Dress Your Family In Curduroy and Denim' I scoured the Oxfams of London for more second-hand Sedaris books, finding 'Me Talk Pretty One Day,' 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' and 'Barrell Fever,' so I could laugh my way through those.

I feel my greatest publicist work for Sedaris happened on the public transport system of London. I was on the double-decker bus heading to Oxford Circus and basically busting my lungs trying not to cry with laughter as I read 'Dress Your Family'. I was so immersed in Sedaris' hilarious piece on cultural differences called 'Six to Eight Black Men' that I jumped when the lady sitting in front of me said 'Excuse me?' I immediately assumed she was going to ask me to shut up or had mistaken my laughter for crying. But instead with eagerness she asked me what I was reading. She was so curious about what could make me laugh so much she just had to know! With relief and surprise I handed her the book so she could read the blurb, and praised it to high heaven. She thanked me saying she had been looking for a funny book to read and immediately began downloading it on her kobo.

My second publicity stunt occured when heading to Borough Markets on the underground tube. I didn't have a seat in the packed carriage but didn't mind because Sedaris once again was making me laugh myself silly. So silly I suspected that in that moment for all the Londoners sharing my carriage I was the 'typical loon' on their train that day. I read with the book held high over my face like a mask to hide my silent giggling but my shoulders which remained exposed still shook with laughter. Just before my stop I lowered my book to find the middle-aged couple standing opposite starring and smiling at me. 'Good book then??' the man asked, genuinely interested. I chuckled and told him was it ever! They laughed, asked to see the cover which I obliged and said they would look out for it, wishing me a very nice day as I stepped out of the carriage onto the platform.

Since London I have continued reading Sedaris in Italy. I am older and wiser now though, aware that if I read this one as quickly as I did the others then very soon I will finish it and the addictive joy will be over. I am still in the last chapter now of 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' which I started three weeks ago and still preaching the virtues of his attractive self-deprecation, dazzling observation skills and the delicious way he handles irony.

Sure Sedaris isn't exactly up with the times, he is in fact quite a dork. So if you are looking for the musings of someone you can relate to by age and interest this is maybe not for you. But this is also what I like about Sedaris, he never proclaimed to be cool. His honesty about his own sexuality and oddballness, his hilarious portraits of his quirky family and friends, the wonderful one-line observations about the world, and his ability to always to wrap up his stories with an elegant bow, drawing the important facts together to make a satisfying final message, in my opinion makes him a very entertaining and neat writer.

So everyone go and read Sedaris now, particulary if you are in need of a good career change.

Northen Italian Village-Crawl: Bassano del Grappa, Vicenza, Asolo

Working as an au pair has allowed me many benefits as a traveller. I don't have to pay for food or accommodation and with my Castelfranco family it was agreed that I was not needed by the family till 3pm monday to friday. I also had sundays off completely.

With my mornings off I liked to take the train to visit beautiful local towns, and during that period I made it to three.

Stop number 1: Bassano del Grappa

Bassano was recommended to me by many friends who have raved about its beauty, and it indeed was well worth the visit. Unfortunately not much was open in the way of the beautiful boutiques common to cobble-stone Italian towns due to it being low season. However the markets were on which I took a stroll through through. They were a little hit and miss, consisting mostly of outlet stalls for underclothes and bedsheets, but the highlights of the markets were the flower stalls which smelled amazing and the fresh produce stalls. I bought a punnet of strawberries when I was leaving and ate them as I strolled back to the train station. The other thing worth mentioning was the Libreria Palazzo Roberti, one of the most beautiful bookshops I have seen: www.palazzoroberti.it

After the markets I bought a thick Italian hot chocolate and strolled down to the otherwordlyAlpini Bridge which I am happy to say is as beautiful as it is on google images. I spent a long time leaning on the bannister, taking photos and indulging in the view.  I then walked down the opposite bank in order to take photos of the bridge from afar where I met some ducks encamped amongst the lilies and reeds. In my good mood I shared some of my mozarella and prosciutto panini with them.

I highly recommend Bassano,  even just as an aesthetic experience. It is a combination of quaint, tasteful, otherwordly, and sublime...a fascinating experience as a tourist. I couldn't stop musing the whole time I was there: 'To think people are so well acquainted with beauty it is their daily reality...I wonder if they know how lucky they are!'




Stop number 2: Vicenza

Vicenza I can imagine being so beautiful in the summer. The turqoise dome of the Basilica Palladiana must glow and make a beautiful contrast to the houses painted in bright shades of terracotta, peach and mustard. When I was there it was definitely still winter though. It was drizzly, a bit dark and the gray sky seemed to dull the details of the stonework of the Piazza dei Signori.

I strolled around, finding once again that many shops were still shut, but I did enjoy a nice nutella and strawberry crepe and decide against buying a bottle of Klorane dry shampoo which was selling for a despicable ten euros in a chic pharmacy.

Another highlight was visiting the Teatro Olimpico. Despite the creepy supervisor, who offered to take a photo of me against the stage but then escalated the situation into a fullblown, slightly awkward photo shoot, it was very interesting and has been preserved beautifully. It also had a cute gift shop.

I visited the Palladio musuem, and as I have found is often typical with Italian musuems in winter, I was the only visitor and the supervisors were more than plentiful. I was stalked around the museum by bored musuem attendants but still managed to learn a thing or two about Palladio and to take a sneaky shot here and there of the gilded ceilings.

It was a shame that the sun only decided to come out in Vicenza just as I was about to leave. With a few minutes to spare I darted back to some of the more beautiful sights and recaptured them showing off their full sun-kissed potential. I am glad I did, particularly in regards to Piazza dei Signori which had a beautiful array of brightly coloured houses sadly dulled by the gray sky tormented me. I managed to capture these houses just as how I like to imagine they would look in the height of summer: fun, bright, and so very romantic.




Stop number 3: Asolo

The main lesson I have learned about travelling in Italy in winter is that it is both a blessing and a curse.  Being able to eat at any restaurant you want, walk through close to empty streets without being bustled around and getting into museums immediately is great. However as someone who identifies as an extrovert it can be a bit demotivational visiting towns that are beautiful but with almost lifeless streets.

In Asolo I decided that if I could not enjoy the company of its presently non-existant population, except for the five inhabitants I ran into again and again in the space of three hours, then I would focus on communing with its nature, which was peaceful and dramatic. I hiked up to the remains of the castle on the highest point of the village known as the Rocca, then hiked down to the nunnery and graveyard of Saint Anna which had the most spectacular view and contained the grave of the amazing Italian Actress Elanora Duse. It is a fitting final resting place for a woman who so articulately valued the natural world:

"If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things of nature have a message that you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive..."

I ate broccoli and spinach ravioli, and rabbit for lunch, peered in the few expensive boutiques aimed for wealthy retirees that were open, and debated whether I did or did not have room left for gelato. I admired the tall towers of the city baking in the sun, creating many layers of spires and matching shadows set down the sides of its many slopes. I also enjoyed a glass of fresh orange juice at a tiny cafe full of elderly but impeccably groomed Italian ladies, and watched a bride in the most gorgeous winter weddingdress I have ever seen step out of a car and enter the Cattedrale with her family and friends.

In conclusion, forced to enjoy the nature more than I would have had it been any other time of year, the natural and structural aspects of Asolo provided an envigorating yet peaceful experience.

Babysitting Charlie

I only had one official babysitting job in Sydney before my current au pair experience.

My little sister had the same bestfriend for the first few years of primary school, a boy I will call Charlie.

I remember seeing him run around our house when he came over and imagining how adorable it would be if they were to grow up and become sweethearts. Both had golden blonde hair, blue eyes and mischevious smiles. They always had a lot of fun together.

My mother always thought Charlie was wonderful. He was 'such a character' as I was soon to find out...

I had met Charlie's mother a few times, just quickly, when she picked him up from our house. I thought she was a wonderfully kind and vibrant woman, the kind of person who made you feel comfortable within minutes of knowing her.

When she approached my mum to ask if I was interested in baby-sitting Charlie I leapt at the opportunity.  At this stage I had just turned fifteen and I was still to get my first job, so the prospect of earning my own cash was exciting.

Charlie's mother called me to talk about the specifics of the job. Basically Charlie was learning the piano in group lessons after school once a week. However she had work. All I had to do was go straight from highschool once a week, down the road to my old primary school which Charlie and my sister also attend, and accompany him for the lesson.

The first time I had underestimated the time needed to get from highschool to the lesson. I arrived late and he was furious. The sunny little boy I knew as my sister's bestfriend was now a terrifying scold.

"You, are late!" he hissed as I slipped next to him on the piano stool. I was disheartened to find that what I thought was a little baby angel was capable of radiating such dislike. Next week will be better I told myself. It wasn't.  I made sure I was on time, but he wouldn't have it, I couldn't do anything right. During parent participation activities he held my hand with limp distaste. When the lesson finished he would run to the door, grab his bag and stalk off to aftercare without so much as a goodbye or a glance back.

"Bye Charlie...see you next week..."

I worked out eventually he was not angry at me as such after learning a bit more about his father from my parents. My mum had been told by Charlie's mother that her husband who was a science researcher had to dragged away from his work.

"The man's a workaholic," my father informed us.

Charlie's mother was also a busy woman. Not just a mum she used to be a dancer and was now holding a high up executive position in the Sydney Dance Company.

Here lay the root of my 'Charlie Problem:' Looking around the piano lesson room all the children except Charlie had a mum or dad sitting next to them. I was clearly no substitute for either of his busy parents.

So the piano lessons which continued may have been good money, but they did nothing for my confidence as a baby-sitter.

Despite the cold front Charlie must have been giving me a fairly decent review to his mother, because once the piano lessons concluded she asked if I would consider baby-sitting him on weekends and during evenings. Taking the money into account I said yes.

I approached the first weekend session preparing for the worst. I remembered my own experiences of being baby-sat at about age seven with my little brother by a woman I will call Mary. She smelt perpetually of peppermint from the gum she chewed and tucked us into bed with fake nails the length of talons. On the whole she was nice enough, but that didn't stop my brother bawling in protest until he was red in the face and dragging himself down our ten metre hallway on his stomach, abandonment exemplified. I also remember him spitefully drawing with textas on the wall.

I however was on the other end of the spectrum, whole-heartedly embracing the concept of babysitting as a home breakfast-in-bed service. I pestered Mary for late-night treats I would never have dared ask for if my parents were home. My favourites were vegemite and butter toast cut into triangles and hot chocolate at midnight. 'Thankyou, Mary, that will be all." I would wave her from my room after the delivery of a second serving of toast.

Thankfully Charlie was over-excited, a little bit hyper, not afraid to answer back, and given to outrageous cheating while playing monopoly. But at least the cold demeanor I knew from piano lessons was gone.

The next time I babysat Charlie things took a different turn. It started off normal enough but then he decided it was time for some dancing. I was amazed by his natural groove that was of a maturity beyond his years. He boogied around the house as I watched on amused and fascinated. The boy was fabulous and clearly very talented.

He got even a bit too fabulous for me though when he took his showmanship to the next level. He sat me down on the couch, turned off all lights except one to create atmosphere, then hit play on the sound system. A sexy latin-jazz track began to play. In the middle of his stage,  the loungeroom floor, he raised his head to the beat. Then his arms flipped around like little angular swords. He began to gyrate his hips and I started getting uncomfortable. Then before I knew what was hapening he had ripped off his shirt with a growl and tossed it onto my face, all the while starring deep into my eyes.

"WHOAH, WHOAH, WHOAH!" I leapt up tearing the shirt from my face. I raced over and turned down the jazz. I reassured Charlie that his dancing was terrific, but that it was time for bed. Or monopoly. Or any other activity of his choice, suitable for an eight year old boy, other than a striptease...

Later that evening when his mother drove me home I asked her whether he was receiving any dance lessons because he was just so, errm, wonderful. She shook her head suddenly looking worried.
"I know, I know..." she said anxiously as if we were discussing something sobre like a bed-wetting problem. I didn't understand at the time, being a dancer herself, why she hadn't encouraged her son to also enjoy it. To me it even sounded like she feared him enjoying it. It seemed out of character for as she had always struck me as a very progressive and relaxed individual.

"It's to do with his father," said Dad. Mum also caught onto the idea.
"Yes, the boy does love dressing up...do you think he is afraid Charlie's gay...?" Whether or not this was the case remained unanswered.

The third baby-sitting session was also eventful. I was minding not only Ben but his cousin. There was no striptease but both of them were hyper and hard to manage. Things really got out of control during a game of hide and seek. I was counting when suddenly the cousin came running inside to inform me Charlie was urinating in the middle of the street. I didn't catch the act but I was shown the puddle, and indeed, it was in the middle of the street. I found him hiding around the back of the house. Once I had them both inside I locked the doors and gave them a talking to about public hygiene.  I couldn't get too angry though, it made a good story.

The next session Charlie was particularly cheeky, answering back at nearly everything I said. Also I didn't think it possible but his cheating at boardgames had gotten even worse. At some point in the evening Charlie told me he wanted to show me something. Despite my better judgement, I agreed, he seemed so serious all of a sudden. He took me out of the back of the house to what appeared to be a renovated garage. Inside it had been turned into a bedroom, complete with desk and wardrobe. Charlie informed me it was his dad's bedroom. He looked at me strangely as if looking for some judgement to appear on my face. Things clicked. His parents were in sleeping in separate rooms, he had been playing up that evening...things weren't happy at home. I took his hand and lead him back to the house.

That was the last time I babysat Charlie. Time passed and the next thing I heard was that his parents had taken him out of my sister's school and put him into an all boys school. I always suspected that may have been his father's idea.

I sometimes wonder how the funny loveable kid is going. I just hope that he has been allowed to take dance lessons because not only do I want to be able to brag about having babysat the next up and coming Peter Allen, but because he was such a bright unique little star.

The Perils of Playdough: Yes, They Exist

We were sitting at the kitchen table, playing with the playdough. The playdough had become an afternoon ritual involving the following steps:

1. The second youngest arrives home
2. The playdough is set up
3. The little one comes home
4. They fight over the division of the playdough
5. For a brief period genuine attempts are made to create true to life objects: cars, spaghetti etc.
6. All playdoughs are mixed into one jumbo colour, usually vomity-purple-brown
7. Playdough is not-so-secretly taste tested.
8. Playdough fight begins
9. Culprits flee the scene
10. I am left to peel playdough off the ceiling.

Today, still in the 'attempts to create true to life objects' stage of the playdough session I got a bit of a surprise. I looked up from my own carefully crafted bowl of spaghetti complete with meatballs and find the little one has...well, unknowingly created a....male appendage.

For a moment I stared at it with disbelief, trying to pinpoint the moment when this afternoon's playdough session turned into a life drawing class. Or should I say life moulding class. Then I wondered What I should do? I mean what was I going to say when their mother inevitably entered the kitchen to check on us and found what appears to be my willing supervision of the construction of a playdough penis by a four year old?? But then if I apologised for it on behalf if the little one upon her arrival she might just think I have a really dirty mind! I could not let this happen. My reputation as au pair was at stake.

"Hey," I said leaning over to the little one and his...creation, "how about you make some spaghetti??" and offered him the garlic crusher hoping he might begin deconstructing his artwork. The answer was a resounding "NOH!"

Ok that tactic was just too obvious. I was going to have to apply more stealth.

I reached over hoping he might not notice me alter the shape, however this is a child used to competing with three bigger and stronger older brothers. His territorial instincts are finely honed, ready to kick in at even the slightest sign that what is his may be wanted and taken from him. He caught sight of my movement from the corner of a suspicious blue eye and let out a shriek that raised to an ear-splitting pitch until I backed up. "Scusa, Scusa!!"
He glared angrily at me for a few seconds then resumed refining the shape if his playdough...well you know what.

Footsteps were approaching, my hostess was returning.  Panicking I mentally ran over the various ways I could explain how this rather inappropriate object came to be formed by her innocent four year old. I held my breath in anticipation.

My hostess noticed it straight away. She stopped, a look of shock on her face, but then to my relief she stifled a snort of laughter, clapping her hands to her mouth.

"Ohhh, mama mia... mama mia" She murmured a little alarmed,  now closer and inspecting its uncannily realistic shape and dimensions. The scrotum, everything... She looked up, we made eye contact,  then we both promptly burst into hysterical laughter.

Despite finding the situation funny my hostess clearly also felt some kind of obligation as did I, to assure invisible neighbours that never ever would she encourage nor allow her four year old boy to make playdough genitalia.

After also failing to inspire him to turn his creation into spaghetti she simply sighed. She gave in, acknowledged its existence and asked the little one what he had made. He replied in italian "a petrol station."

It is a tribute to her devotion to the role of eternally supportive mother that she nodded approvingly, only miming silent laughter to me behind his back.

"Well, it's a very...very nice petrol station" I offered, now relaxed enough about the whole thing to indulge in some double-entendre.

My hostess laughed, "Yes, a nice petrol station, especially for women!" She winked, then with her usual grace left the room giggling with a youthful cheekiness I had not seen in her before.

Thank goodness for progressive Italians!