out of the closet, mummy

It's a little troubling when you start the week with a letter with words like 'unacceptable' and phrases like 'this household runs to standards which must be strictly followed'. It's worse when the letter fills a whole A4 page with heavy black ink and has the stricter instructions underlined. And perhaps the clincher is when the letter details the 'despicable' state of a wardrobe. Yes, a wardrobe. Sure, it's a beautiful mahogany dating back about a thousand years that was probably carved by Grecian virgins in silk robes and is worth more than I've made in the past ten years of menial work. It's filled with uniforms for two kids whose added ages equal less than Justin Bieber's.

Upon receiving said letter I raced up the stairs, terrified that I'd perhaps confused the closet with a toilet and urinated all over it before tearing up the girl's clothes and writing 'penis' in permanent marker on the doors before smearing the cat's litter box in the drawers. Dear reader, the tone of his note is what you'd expect if I'd beaten his kids with a metal rasp. I found the closet, wee and cat faeces free, with a couple of skivvies inside out in the wrong drawer.

Yes, this man is utterly bananas.

The girls have their own little quirks. During bath time this evening, they insisted I show them my tummy. Insisted is a weak word. When I refused, the younger one started crying. I pulled up my top and they stared, aghast. 'It's FLAT' said eight year old K. 'Stop sucking it in!' I insisted that I wasn't. They made me take deep breaths to prove it. 'Can you have a shower while we have a bath?' asked six year old A. Nope. 'But we want to see you with no clothes on!'

Ah, yes. Turns out the kids are mental, too.

Even more worrisome was dinner time. They'd called me mum a couple of times and I'd pretended not to notice. 'Mum, can you cut up my fish?' asked A. I obliged. 'Possum,' I said, 'I'm not your mum. I'm your nanny.' K pouted. 'But you do everything a mum does and we love you so you're our mum now.'

Ok. Sweet Jesus. Not only do I not remember having unprotected sex with their bonkers fifty-something year old, ostentatious father, or the part where they popped out of my nether regions, but I'm now bridled with the responsibility of having to remember their birthdays every year and care about whatever beige thing happened in their day. Am tempted to set fire to something so I can get fired and return to the safety of making lattes. Or perhaps I'll just take a whiz in the wardrobe.