This is Mary Poppins by way of John le Carré and Armando Iannucci, with a sprinkling of Edwardian dread.
JACKSON LAMB IN CHERRY TREE LANE: A DARKER SATIRE
“Practically Obscene in Every Way.”
Cherry Tree Lane had seen its share of disturbances—rampaging suffragettes, runaway horses, the occasional explosion from Admiral Boom’s misguided experiments—but nothing prepared it for the walking health hazard that arrived when the Banks family advertised for a nanny.
He did not descend from heaven.
He did not ride the wind.
He trudged up the lane like the physical embodiment of other people’s bad decisions.
Jackson Lamb, smelling faintly of gin, tobacco, and governmental cutbacks, stopped at the Banks’ gate and squinted at the brass plate.
“Right address,” he muttered. “Pity.”
Mrs. Banks opened the door, took one look at him, and clung to a potted fern for stability.
Mr. Banks, desperately behind schedule, hired him anyway, giving the resigned shrug of a man who has finally accepted that life is nothing but a series of managerial errors.
THE KITE INCIDENT: A LESSON IN AERODYNAMIC CRUELTY
Michael’s kite, like most things in the Banks household, was on the verge of collapse. When it tore free, the children watched the sky hopefully, waiting for a magical descent of an otherworldly caretaker.
Instead they got Lamb.
He inspected the kite as if it were a suspicious package.
“This isn’t a toy,” he said. “This is evidence of generational incompetence.”
He lit a cigarette, used the glowing tip to melt the frayed string into compliance, and handed the repaired kite to Michael.
“Don’t lose it again. I won’t save you twice.”
The kite soared beautifully—a fact Lamb dismissed with a grunt that suggested “physics did that, not you.”
THE OUTING: A FIELD TRIP TO HELL’S BASEMENT
The children expected a whimsical field trip. Lamb delivered something else entirely.
“We’re going somewhere educational,” he announced.
He pulled up a sewer grate.
Down they went, into the bowels of London, where the dampness felt sentient and the walls whispered Victorian sins.
A gaunt figure emerged from the darkness: Patch-Eye George, Lamb’s “old contact.”
“This one’s laundering cash for the church now,” Lamb said. “Admirable, considering.”
George bowed to the children. “Fancy learning to bypass a lock? You never know when life’ll trap you in a pantry with a rat.”
Jane swallowed hard. “Will… will this help us become better people?”
“No,” Lamb said. “But it’ll help you survive them.”
THE NURSERY CLEANUP: AN EXERCISE IN AUTHORITARIAN ORDER
The nursery was a crime scene of toys, crumbs, and unregulated childhood.
“No singing,” Lamb said. “I’ve got standards.”
He folded his arms, cracked his neck, and radiated an aura of bureaucratic menace.
The children cleaned at a speed previously thought impossible without the aid of illegal stimulants. Lamb didn’t help—he simply observed, correcting their technique with the same tone a mortician might use when remarking on a botched embalming.
When the room gleamed, he nodded once.
“This is called competence. Terrifying, isn’t it?”
THE BANK EPISODE: LAMB VS. CAPITALISM
During their visit to Mr. Banks at the Fidelity Fiduciary Bank, Lamb detected corruption instantly—mainly because the guilty man was sweating, trembling, and stuffing incriminating papers into a potted plant.
Lamb grabbed him by the collar.
“If you’re going to commit fraud, do it properly,” he hissed. “Or don’t do it at all.”
The banker confessed on the spot, terrified not of the police but of Lamb’s disappointment.
Mr. Banks, bewildered and clutching his bowler hat like a flotation device, was applauded by his supervisors for “rooting out financial malfeasance.”
He didn’t correct them.
He wanted to live.
THE ROOFTOP: A VIOLENT ALTERNATIVE TO CHIMNEY SWEEPS
MI5 arrived one night, claiming Lamb had “abused his position in a domestic environment,” which was fair. They scrambled across the rooftop like overzealous squirrels with sidearms.
Lamb shoved the children behind a chimney stack.
“What are they doing?” whispered Jane.
“Trying to arrest me for being myself,” Lamb said. “Idiots.”
He dispatched the agents with alarming efficiency—a trip here, a shove there, a well-timed toss into a smokestack.
It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t elegant.
But it was a team-building exercise.
MR. BANKS’ TRANSFORMATION: A HOSTILE TAKEOVER OF HIS IDENTITY
Lamb cornered Mr. Banks one evening, pinning him with a stare that suggested he was evaluating him for organ donation.
“Your children,” Lamb said, “need a father, not a banker who occasionally appears like a ghost with a schedule.”
Mr. Banks trembled. Then nodded. Then, amazingly, changed.
He started leaving work early.
He started asking questions.
He even apologized once—nearly fainting from the exertion.
Lamb, disgusted, muttered, “Pathetic. And yet… progress.”
THE DEPARTURE: NO SONG, NO CLASS, NO REGRETS
One morning, Lamb vanished. No umbrella, no clouds parting, no sugar.
Just a note pinned to the pantry:
You’re marginally less useless. I’m off. Don’t look for me.
—L
He stole the silverware and a bottle of brandy before leaving.
The children claimed they later saw him at the far end of Cherry Tree Lane, coat flapping, cigarette glowing, muttering, “Never again. Unless they pay me.”
And somewhere in London, a bank collapsed for reasons no one could fully explain.
