Not understanding what people are saying can lead to misunderstanding and perhaps some level of embarrassment, but not paying attention can kill.
This was exactly what happened — but not before a series of unexpected events unfolded. Little did we know, chaos was just around the corner.
This story takes place in the pre-Alexa era, when no AI was saving your arse. It was a time when we had to rely on ourselves and think.
And occasionally… forget to think at all.
Trusted With a Mansion
At the time, I was an au pair for an aristocratic family in Northern Ireland. I looked after the children and, when required, the animals. My husband-to-be, very calm on every occasion, did whatever was needed around the house.
One summer, the family left for a three-week holiday, leaving us in charge of the house and the animals. They believed their seven-bedroom mansion, in the middle of nowhere, was left in good hands.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
It was a BIG, BIG MISTAKE.
Before leaving, they handed me a long list of responsibilities: cleaning, washing, feeding, exercising the animals — enough chores to ensure I wasn’t bored, and definitely not enjoying paid free time without children.
Attached to the list was a manual.
Who.
What.
How.
Where.
When.
Everything was clearly explained.
Did I read it properly? Of course not. My head was already buzzing with DOs and DON’Ts.
Lords of the Manor (Or Something Like That)
The first night of freedom arrived.
For the first time, we were completely alone in this historic manor house, surrounded by fields, forests, and the kind of darkness you only get in the Northern Irish countryside. We were the “Lords of the Manor” — or maybe modern-day servants.
I suppose it all depends on your point of view. Right?
We mucked out the stables, rode the horses, and walked the dogs.
One of the dogs ate a rope and had to be rushed to the emergency vet. She survived and returned to her old self once the rope left her body — with a bit of help pulling it out of her bum.
Everyone was fine.
Technically.
The Fire
Every night, we collapsed into bed close to midnight. On the fourth night, half asleep and exhausted from learning to drive a tractor — and nearly pulling down a stable — I went to draw the curtains.
That’s when I noticed something red in the distance.
I stared at it, trying to understand what I was seeing.
It’s fire.
Panic washed over me, taking all logical reasoning with it.
The red glow grew brighter, taller, closer. The surrounding countryside was pitch black — a perfect contrast to the flames creeping towards us.
My mind went wild. I could picture the drama unfolding right before my eyes.
We would have to run to save our lives.
Passports — I mustn’t forget our passports.
The fire would swallow the 18th-century manor house in minutes. The family would return to nothing but ashes and smoke. Every possession, every antique, every carefully preserved piece of history gone. Children crying hysterically over the loss of their dolls — the same dolls whose hair they had previously cut and whose faces they had decorated with freckles in pen.
I ran downstairs to grab the landline phone — mobile signal barely existed in this God-forsaken place.
The problem was that I couldn’t locate the fire itself. I could only see it in the distance, right opposite me, from the bedroom window.
It was growing taller.
Redder.
Think.
THINK.
I punched in the number anyway. I’d just explain what I could see.
As the phone rang, realisation hit me.
I hung up.
The fireball detached itself from the ground and began rising into the sky.
I froze. Phone still in my hand.
It wasn’t fire.
It was the moon.
The Bloody Moon
Bloody moon. A massive so-called blood moon lifting itself into the sky — a total lunar eclipse that I absolutely did not need explained at that moment.
Mesmerised, still shaking, I stood there in my fluffy pyjamas, watched by rows of stern faces in period portraits, silently judging me as I witnessed this dramatic celestial event like a confused Victorian child.
Relief washed over me.
The family wasn’t going to lose their home after all.
And I wasn’t going to end up begging in the street, collecting money for a plane ticket back to where I came from.
The Checklist
The next morning at breakfast, I felt inexplicably lucky. Everything seemed… fine.
Time for the mental checklist.
🐴 Horses
- Fed ✅
- Exercised ✅
- Cleaned ✅
✔ All done.
🐶 Dogs
- Walked ✅
- Five ✅
- All Alive ✅
✔ Survived.
🐹 Hamsters
⚠ Oh shit. The hamsters….
Death by Negligence
I ran through the endless corridors, cursing the size of the house, until I reached the sitting room where the two small rodents lived in their cages.
Freddy was happily running on his wheel.
Mr Hamster was… not.
He appeared to be sleeping.
Thank God.
The hamsters were fine. Close call, I thought.
I quickly added food. Water. Everything a responsible adult would do.
Freddy ran straight to eat.
Mr Hamster didn’t move.
I picked him up.
He wasn’t breathing.
No, no, no. I had killed the hamster. I was a negligent killer.
Panicking, I ran back to the kitchen, holding his limp little body. His mouth was open, so I turned on the tap and let water run in. Then I turned him upside down and let it pour out.
Nothing.
I grabbed a grape, sliced it in half, and placed him mouth-first onto it.
Maybe sugar would revive him.
Nothing.
As I stared at the motionless hamster lying on a piece of fruit, I thought:
What a terrible way to die.
Starved to death.
And now lying on food.
Plan B
I decided I’d have to replace him. No one would notice.
I envisioned a mad dash to the nearest pet shop, grabbing a replica of Mr Hamster. While trying to calm my racing heart, I planned to quickly Google “hamster breeds” to make sure I got it right and didn’t end up with a different species. Imagine bringing the dead hamster and asking for an identical one.
As panic swirled, I wondered if anyone would notice if the fur was slightly different. My head buzzed with logistics: did I even have enough money left from my au pair allowance to pull this off?
Time was against me, and I could practically feel the weight of those period portraits again, watching me again as I plotted my ridiculous scheme.
What’s that?
A small sucking sound.
It was Mr Hamster.
Slowly, impossibly, he came back from the dead.
I hadn’t killed the hamster after all. Lucky him! And lucky me!!!
I started breathing in and out. In and out. Sharing the poor rodent’s life-dependent necessity.
Time to return to the checklist.
Final Status
🐹 Hamsters
- Fed ✅
- Two ✅
- Both alive ✅
✔ Death avoided.
(For now.)
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