Billy is s a manny, one of a growing number of male nannies working in London, today. His first charge is as unconventional as his career choice, but Billy embraces it. Sadly, one silly mistake, leads to a sorry situation.
Silly Billy is a fan ficti...
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My name's Billy, and I'm a male nanny.
Get this; my first job was to take care of a doll.
Yep. That's right, a grown nineteen-year-old fella's first job as a manny was to take care of a life sized boy doll, called Elliot.
Elliot belonged to an old couple, Mr and Mrs Milton. How they came to bestow love and care on a mannequin is their story.
This is my story – and it begins on the day I broke the one and only rule pertaining to Elliot's care.
"Do not ever cover my son's face!" Stressed Mrs Milton, with an unnerving malevolence. Her unnecessary tone surprised me, but I reacted professionally, "I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," I replied, sincerely.
......
I didn't purposely break her rule. I'm a respectful guy, a responsible nanny.
It just happened, accidently.
Elliot was dressed for bed and nestling on my hip as we waved the Miltons away for a night out.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I shut the door, turned to the doll and said, "You know what, I'm going to have a snoop around your manor, Elliot."
When Ichuckled at the thought of myself talking to a doll, he slipped off my hip. I managed to grab his pajama top before he hit the floor. But as I hiked him back up, the top covered his face – oops!
'No one need know,' I thought.
Disappointingly, I found nothing untoward on my snoop: no secret stairwells, no bookcases that concealed long forgotten rooms, no mummified bodies. No evidence that the Miltons were anything but what they were: wealthy and indulged, grieving parents.
But en route to Elliots' bedroom I was assailed by an ear splitting scream: WAH-WAH-WAH!
It was an alarm.
Instinctively holding tight to Elliot, I ran onto the landing and scanned round for signs of fire and smells of smoke.
None.
I took the stairs two by two with a desperate desire to escape the deafening siren.
My holding onto Elliot meant I could only cover one ear. I should have put the doll down, but I had this innate feeling of care for him.
The siren began to increase in volume and switched from uncomfortable to dangerous, I felt an eardrum might bust. Yet still I held tight to the doll with just one hand on my right ear, leaving the left vulnerable and vibrating.
Relentlessly it screamed its incessant wail, forcing me to seek a place in the vast house that would offer some defense from the violence of its attack.
