my au pair hell:the french re-connection 2

The days grew shorter, shops were decorated with twinkling lights and tinsel. Images of Santa Claus hung from every supermarket aisle: August was drawing to a close. The wife and I fully expected Danielle to want to return to the goose-greased bosom of her family for the festive season. For us, Christmas was a time of almost spiritual retreat. Each year, we would withdraw from the world, put on the answering machine, close the curtains and pretend the whole thing was a mirage. Having a visitor in the house would ruin our fantasy.

Later, the mother of my child and I would argue as to exactly whose responsibility it was to find out what the au pair's plans for Christmas were. I reckoned my time in the stinking trenches had more than freed me from any further part in the action. My wife felt that her onerous responsibility to travel the world and wear down the numbers on her corporate credit card left her with no energy for, or interest in, domestic matters. But by this time it was too late, we had already learned the awful truth.

Far from intending to return to France to be with her loved ones for the season of goodwill to all greeting card companies, Danielle had- unbelievably- decided to stay with us. It took us some time to adjust to the shock of this news. Why didn't she want to be with her family? What would they think of her staying here? Casually tossing these questions into her breakfast cereal one morning we received an answer so frightening we had to ask Danielle to repeat her reply.

"My parents, zey come to England for Christmas" she beamed. I was too frightened to ask the supplementary question and left it to my wife, who was slowly turning white at the gills. Danielle's response confirmed our worst fears: "I thought zey could stay here" she said, smiling. My eyes rolled up and my head went back until all I could see was the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. The day's date had been circled by our little angel that very morning: December 19th. I turned to my wife and weakly, asked, "Who do we know who has a stable?" Only half comprehending, Danielle insisted her parents could sleep in her room. What alternative did we have so close to Christmas? What hotel in our little midlands town would have room this late on? Why the hell didn't Danielle tell us sooner?

Through the haze of incomprehension came the deep growl of our au pair's voice: "And ze uzzers can sleep on ze floor, maybe in ze living room". Ze uzzers? What uzzers? My wife and I reached out and gripped each others hands under the table. I wanted to know who 'ze uzzers' were almost as much as I didn't want to hear the answer. "Oh, my cousin and his friend, zey come too" replied Danielle, removing the breakfast things and any hopes we had about a quiet Christmas. Why, we banned our own flesh and blood from us at Christmas and here we were about to play host to a family of complete strangers. Two thirds of my life flashed before me. The other third was held in reserve for when this troupe of Gauls arrived. Now we knew why there was no English version of the French 'fait accomplis'. We were beaten. My wife, sensing I was less than calm, asked the fateful question: "Er when do they arrive, and how long do they plan to stay?". I winced in anticipation. "Zey arrive on twenty fourth and stay until about Janvier four or five" muttered Danielle over her broad shoulders as she loaded the dishwasher.

This was too much: even the three wise men knew not to overstay their welcome, and they were bearing gifts. My wife and I withdrew to our bedroom to cry, stick pins in models of Danielle, and plot how we were going to get them all out of the house. It was inconceivable that this four bedroomed house, en suite as it was to the point of incontinence, could cope with seven adults and one child for such a long period without tempers flaring (and ours were already smoking ominously). Danielle would have to be told they couldn't all stay as long as they intended. My wife and I played scissors, paper, rock in order to decide who would break the bad news. After twenty minutes, and by dint of inventing a new category ('dynamite') I won, and my beloved made the long march downstairs.

Even children know Christmas is a stressful time. This year my little darling had written only one request on the letter to Santa that she had stuffed up the artificial chimney that graced our inglenook fireplace in the living room. "Dear Santa" she wrote, "This year I would like magic powers, love, me". Thirty minutes on the 'phone to Hamley's and all other major toy stores removed any lingering doubt I had about my daughter's understanding of the use of capital letters at the beginning of titles; there was no such toy or game as 'Magic Powers'- she meant the real thing. God damn you, Harry Potter!