Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ

With her househusband gone, Helen Matthews has to rely on hired hands to look after her young persons

The day has come, as I knew it would. Alan, my partner of 14 years is leaving us.

No time now to dwell on the emotional aspects of the loss. There are practical matters to deal with. The children are not yet old enough to look after themselves until I get home from work at 7.30pm and they're certainly not old enough to look after me.

Looking after me is an important part of the equation. While it wouldn't be exactly true to say that I haven't boiled an egg since 1989, my culinary contribution has been limited to making the puddings on the rare occasions when we entertain. Since Alan took on the house husband role in 1995, fitting his self-employed work around the needs of the children and the house, I've only rarely had to do the ironing and cleaning.

The thought of having to spend all my weekends shopping and cooking, as well as running a taxi service to get the children to their sporting fixtures and social engagements, fills me with dread.

There is nothing else for it. We will have to get some household help. An au pair is the obvious solution but I can't face the idea of being responsible for a tearful, homesick teenage girl. That would only add to my problems. Someone else for me to worry about as well as the kids. Besides Alex is 12 and Bronwen is 11 and it won't be easy for an au pair to earn their respect.

I do my own web search and identify Brano, a twenty-three year old economics graduate from Slovakia who is already in the UK. He has au pair experience and glowing references from a family in Cambridge. I like the self-effacing way he describes himself, particularly his wry comment that "I realise that as a man I am less preferred for the position of au pair." Clearly, he is the man for us.

After a few days of cautious negotiations by email and phone, I succeed in persuading Brano to abandon the culture of Cambridge, bypass the bright lights of London and come and bury himself in a village in the Hampshire countryside where I won't even be able to give him use of a car.

Brano's arrival brightens up our lives no end. On his first evening we all sit around the kitchen table and run through his duties. I explain that, if I've written an evening appointment on the calendar, that means I want him to babysit. But it probably won't be more than once or twice a week.

"No problem, Helen," he assures me with a smile. "I vill not be going out in ze evenings. Vile I am here I vant to stay in and save my money."

Just twenty-four hours later, Brano has been discovered and adopted by the village's nanny fraternity. He is down at the local pub in the company of five girls, being bombarded with invitations to nightclubs and playing darts with the barman.

But they are not the only people to benefit from having Brano around. Arriving home from work to a surprisingly calm and peaceful house, I am astounded to discover Brano and Alex playing Scrabble. Excuse me? I said, playing Scrabble! Not on the PS2, not on the Internet, only one eye on the television and actually playing a constructive game!

It's too good to last. After ten more minutes Alex is getting decidedly jumpy at being unhooked from his technology life support systems. He keeps looking nervously over his shoulder saying stuff like, "It's time I went and checked my email".

But it's a start. Any day now Alex and Bronwen will be unplugged. Brano locates long forgotten board games lurking in the loft and drags them out from their hiding places. One day he and Bronwen are playing Battleships, another day it's Trivial Pursuit or Mastermind. All of these play skills pale into insignificance beside the domestic god standard of Brano's ironing and cooking. The smallest most unmentionable item of laundry is carefully folded, food is beautifully presented, veggie-phobic children who would not normally eat as much as a lettuce leaf are now tucking into Greek salad. The house is tidy as well as clean. Clutter is banished into neat piles.

My friends and colleagues are worried about me. They know how useless I am domestically. No doubt they fear that one day they will be lumbered with the responsibility of calling the police to break down the door of our house and remove our half-starved bodies to the mortuary.

"No problem," I assure them. "I have an au pair."

"Oh," they reply relieved. "Where's she from?"

"He's from Slovakia."

They exchange meaningful glances. Any day now the neighbours will start to talk.

We settle into a comfortable routine, domestic burdens are shared and the weeks pass quickly. But like all good things - it can't last forever. In just a few weeks, Brano will be moving on to a family in London.

And Alan will return from France to take up the reins of our dysfunctional household once more.

Sorry, did I not explain? Alan hasn't left us for good. He's spent the last three months in France where he's been doing up the old ruined cowshed we impulse bought two years ago because it was cheap. Naively, we thought it would be easy to turn it into a holiday home.

But that's another story.