I'm being held prisoner in central London by the volcanic eruption in Iceland. The family's private jet is grounded until the cloud of ash floating over the UK clears, which means my stay is being prolonged indefinitely. Apparently the same volcano's last eruption (during the 19th century) lasted for two years, so the outlook is grim. I'm severly tempted just to cut and run; I have an interview on Wednesday for a teacher training course, and I could probably tell the family that I need to get home in order to prepare for it. This wouldn't even be that much of a lie, but I would feel guilty about abandoning the other staff members in the house.

My job has well and truly devolved from teaching to childminding. Over the last week, much of my time has been spent keeping the son out of the kitchen, where he would otherwise run riot, slapping the butler's head to try to make him drop things, screeching demands for ever more elaborate sandwiches in the chef's ear and generally being as obnoxious as possible. The other staff members work longer hours than me and have more responsibilities, so unleashing this force of extreme nuisance upon them because I can't be bothered to babysit anymore seems a bit unfair. On the other hand, the possibility of spending a day in the spring sunshine without once being shouted at by a twelve-year-old is becoming too much to resist.

Earlier in the week he elbowed me in the face while attempting to perform a wrestling move. I got a nasty split lip to show for it, a souvenir battlescar of my time with the family. That evening we ate dinner with his parents, who did their best to ignore my swollen and slightly bloody lip, even though I was sure they knew where it had come from. Proof, if any were needed, of their absolute refusal to acknowledge their son for the hooligan he is.

It's not all been random violence though. On Wednesday, I got to go to Disneyland! Eager to take advantage of all the culture and fun London has to offer, the kids had the bright idea that we should jump on the Eurostar at King's cross and head to meet some of their friends in Paris. The trip cost just over a grand (I know this because it was left to me to buy the tickets up front) and they were only in the park for about 6 hours. This would have been a lot worse but for the fact that when you're incredibly rich, you can pay someone to take you to the front of all the queues! I was shocked.

Quite a different experience being in a theme park when you don't have to queue. Whether making it to the end of a walkway that seems to snake around the ride endlessly creates a sense of anticipation, or simply renders you so bored that a ride in a shopping trolley would seem fun, things don't quite feel the same when you're let in a back entrance by a man in a Disney suit. We went on space mountain three times, and by the end it was a total snoozefest. I thought this could just be me getting older and becoming too mature for theme parks, but apparently not - on the way back I asked the son if he had enjoyed his day, and he told me it was "boring as shit".