So Carrie Johnson fired her nanny? I wish I’d done the same

The former PM’s wife was entirely right – and impressively decisive – to let her maternity nurse go after just three days in the job, says Helen Kirwan-Taylor. It’s about time new mums had the upper hand over their hired help

There’s something about Mary Poppins: nannies can earn £600 a shift – or even more

If I ever do Mastermind, my chosen special subject will be nannies. Over the years, me and my circle of friends have had more than our fair share of hired helps who, when it came to looking after our precious newborns, weren’t actually that much help… and, one suspected, were secretly interested in helping themselves, and not just to our husbands.

As of this week, it appears I might have a new “nanny nightmare” to commit to memory.

Fifty-nine-year-old Theresa Dawes, 59, has claimed she was sacked after just three days looking after Boris and Carrie Johnson’s youngest child, two-month-old Frank, as well as Wilfred, 3, and Romy, 2.

For their part, the pair have denied reports that Dawes was let go after Carrie was told that she had been seen toasting the birth of the couple’s third child with the former prime minister – and that Dawes was given just 15 minutes to pack her things and leave the Johnsons’ Oxfordshire home.

I don’t have much in common with Carrie Johnson, especially not her taste in husband material – but whatever led to the departure of the nanny, no one can accuse Carrie of being indecisive. In my experience, most new mothers are willing to hand over their husbands if it means getting one decent night’s sleep. (My sons are now in their twenties, and I’m still playing catch-up.)

In hindsight, it probably wouldn’t have been advisable for any nanny to accept the offer of an innocent “welcome to our family” drink, sipping Chardonnay on a sunny Cotswolds evening with the husband while the wife is still in hospital, dabbing Vaseline onto angry nipples. As a rule, husbands in the days after the birth must adopt a sympathetically downtrodden look for when the baby comes home, not carouse with staff before the screaming begins (mostly, the baby’s).

I presume Dawes was originally chosen for the role of maternity nurse for Frank because, as she is older and experienced, she knew what she was letting herself in for. For those unfamiliar with a maternity nurse’s lot, these women dedicate themselves to other people’s children. They spend their adult life getting up in the night so the parents can sleep; their job is to bring the baby in for night feeds, to burp and swaddle them; repeat 24/7.

They spend their waking hours in the dark, their most meaningful conversations are with chronic dribblers. But there are upsides. Most modern couples do not have a maternity nurse because they cost more than a lawyer: £600 a week in my day – it’s almost that per-day now.

Of all the nurses I went through, there is one that sticks in the mind. She wore a starched, light-blue uniform, was aged somewhere between of 55 and 90, and was recommended by someone who clearly disliked me. We booked her long before the baby was due (six months is not unheard of). But as she agreed to work 24-hour shifts for the first two weeks, then six days a week for three months, I wasn’t about to quibble.

We finalised the verbal agreement and told her to wait for the happy call. Like Dawes, she was expected to arrive a few days early, to get used to the house and how it runs – though, unlike Boris, my husband hid in the bedroom to avoid talking to her.

On day seven – when, as a new mother, you’re at your weakest, your exhaustion and nipple pain at its maximum – nanny announced that she needed a week off. If I’d had the energy, I would have hit her.

My husband, a seasoned manager, tried to negotiate, reminding her of the terms she had agreed with us. I should have been more Carrie and sacked her on the spot. But if there’s one thing I have learned over many, many years of employing various nannies – a task that makes a root canal seem like fun – is that they’re talent, up there with chart-toppers and elite sportwomen. Nannies are Taylor Swift and Sha’CarriRichardson rolled into one. The very last thing they are is disposable.

If nanny says she’s tired, you make doe eyes and agree to pay out thousands for a temp until, poor lamb, she feels better. And don’t think about sacking her: she’ll take you to a small claims court for the full three months “verbal” engagement fee, plus mental hardship, and then some. Or, if you have a big enough profile, she’ll leak your secrets to the press or put you in her memoirs. And there was Carrie thinking Downing Street was tough.

Nannies have us by the b******s. I know two high-net-worth couples currently in litigation with their helps. In both cases, the nannies filed for workplace harassment or somesuch precisely one week after their Christmas bonus was paid – not in cash, so the employer pays tax. Nannies know employment laws better than any City bank HR division.

Nannies are hell – but so is not having one. “They’re the one hire you make where you are completely and utterly vulnerable,” says Salma Shah, the TV pundit, founder of the Kraken Strategy consulatancy and mother-of-two. “They make all your choices emotional.”

One of Shah’s nannies demanded her own credit card; another flushed away so many wet wipes, the contents of the toilet eventually went through the bathroom floor. “All I could say was: ‘Don’t worry about the plumbing bill…’”. And never complain to the agency, because they might blackball you for ever. “It’s a competitive market,” Shah sighs.

Of course, there are good nannies out there, but they go to the highest bidder: usually celebrities, billionaires or royals who pay triple and give them a house, car, use of private jet and a stock portfolio of their own, and, of course, a second nanny (the ultra-rich do one week on, one week off). One of our favourite temps had previously worked for a major pop star couple who, routinely, did not come home for weeks at a time; she was left alone to bring up their baby. As she was often on double or triple time, her salary matched a junior banker’s.

Nannies expect their taxes and national insurance to be paid, answering the doorbell is overtime – and don’t think about asking them to work weekends in the country, not even the Cotswolds.

Think I’m exaggerating? One of my nannies (this one we loved, because she was also a housekeeper) was poached by the ruling family of an African country for 10 times what I was paying her. I recently ran into her daughter, who told me her mother is now a landlord – of her own sprawling seaside development.

Nannies are talent, remember, and charge accordingly. They won’t so much as fold your laundry, but they’ll take you to the cleaners. And, the final insult, they think you’re lame because anyone who wants a nanny really shouldn’t be allowed near one.