My Dearest Perry,
The nanny's name is Yvette.
Yvette de Lamarliere. That's right, they went ahead and hired her.
She's French, a Parisian. Lived in England for five years, working odd jobs in cafes and shops and such while she cares for her mad uncle or something.
Evy advertised for a nanny, you see, and there were a whole bunch of old farts lined up at our door. Then this Yvette girl shows up, and you should see her.
An honest gal, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and helpful... Got a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. Reddest hair you've ever seen, and big, brown eyes... Quite a sight, especially when you pair all that with a good set of gams and that flowery accent.
I, being the keen-eyed fellow that I am, saw right away that it was an act.
As soon as Rick and Evy turn their backs, she's a pompous little chunk of lead. I try to be friendly— keep the peace and all— and she gives me the cold shoulder. The nerve, I tell you! Nasty girl.
I should have trusted my gut instinct, because now I can't come home from the pub without a dirty glare.
It's my house, damn it! (Well, technically it's Evy and Rick's house, but I live here, and I am her superior.) I should not be made to feel bad about every single thing I do.
I ask for a cup of tea? She looks at me like I'm some sort of ogre. I compliment her clothes? She scowls at me. I invite her out for a night on the town? She repeatedly turns down my offers! Utter rudeness.
Believe you me, the second she slips up, I'm having her fired. She's probably stealing from us. And she seems to be good with little Alex, but for all we know she could be a lunatic who force-feeds him frogs' legs and cognac.
Evy doesn't believe me, of course.
Truthfully, I think the only reason she even hired Yvette is because she spent the last part of her pregnancy reading 'Around the World in Eighty Days', and one of the main characters in it is some kind of Frenchman.
But despite Rick and Evy's bad decisions regarding nannies, I am keeping my perspectives on the level.
Speaking of silly decisions— what do you think about the new Romanian king? I read about the whole fiasco in the paper. Old sap dies, and his five-year-old grandson is put in charge of an entire country!
Bloody Romanians. I certainly can't imagine Alexander O'Connell being crowned king at age five, and he's a bright baby.
At the moment, I'm trying to teach him to talk, but Evy says he can't start repeating me yet. (He's three months old, for God's sake. Shouldn't he be jabbering away by now?)
I fear that he'll end up with a French accent, however, and so I'm making sure to teach him very English phrases. 'Bangers and mash' is his favourite term so far, and I'll be damned if that's French in any way.
Anyway, I trust all is well with you.
I'm sure you know that King Fuad is over here at the moment. Maybe you should follow your monarch's example and get your arse over here for a visit? He seems to have brought the good weather with him, as well, and it's rather sunny.
If the weather keeps, I might head down to the beach next week. Stroll along the prom, listen to the brass bands, enjoy the fact that there aren't any crocodiles in the British waters...
Stay safe, Sweetheart.
Cheerio,
Jon.
