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Sunday, July 3, 2011

Fruitcake.

I just had a 45 minute walk with the potential (but not really) new au pair.

'Not really', because I already knew she wasn't getting the job, and it turns out she doesn't want it anyway. Their reasons for not wanting her: she's too nice for our kids, she told us our books were bad, she's very big on God and morals and stuff. Her reasons: she frowns upon reading in English at bedtime and would "have to change that" -going for candles and one of her stories instead, the general not-listening attitude of the boys (I can't tell a lie, I told her they never listen) but mainly she talked about ironing.

Ironing. She doesn't want to lower her standards of living to what they would be in mon petit studio, and she got quite emphatic at this point- Let me first say that you look very nice, I don't mean that you don't look very nice, but me I cannot live somewhere I cannot iron, and where would I put my clothes? (At least the clothes rail is accessible love- try Amy's climb-on-the-desk-to-reach-it cupboard, now sadly empty.) I told her I just hang them up after the wash and that I've gone for a 'non-iron chic' look for my year in Paris, but it isn't for her, apparently. And when I mentioned it was baltic all winter well that was it, she can't do it, she'd get sick. She has a point here, I have been ill in this flat a lot. But mainly what came across from our awkward chat? Fruitcake. (As in she is a.) She carried around a little Tupperware box with cold toast and lemon curd. Yes I had one, but I was really hungry.

I forgot to mention, this au pair is a 50 year old woman rather than your bog standard early twenties girl like the rest of us, which surely begs the question WHY are you applying for this job? You can do better!!! Surely.

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