I spent the day – in between bouts of hard graft – imagining what creations would await me on my return. I knew the girls would love the pretty pink shells and thin ribbons I’d chosen for them, and I wondered if my sensitive son would perhaps fashion me a bracelet from beads of red and green.
When I came home the craft box had been tidied away, the majority of its contents untouched. The nanny had used just two items for this display of her artistic talents; pipe cleaners and brass buttons.
“We’ve made Sovereign rings!” She exclaimed delightedly.
Oh my God. My beautiful, refined children were indeed sporting huge shiny gold rings on their tiny chubby hands. I struggled to find the right words – it seemed uncharitable to suggest that something more shabby-chic would have been more welcome.
“Just like yours.” I remarked. “How lovely.”
Several weeks later the children refuse to be parted from their “Sov rings”, as they so quaintly call them. As fast as I can lose them, so the nanny helps them make more. I’m resigned to my off-spring’s exposure to a sartorial style far from my own. I may just have to intervene before she proposes Indian Ink tattoos on their knuckles.