…  Bounce Ninja!

“Sure!  How hard can it be?”

And with that, I’d committed to taking my son and his mates out for his birthday party.

How hard? 

Plenty hard, it transpired.

Almost as hard as the head-height barriers and the eye-socket shaped corners of the Bounce Ninja indoor trampoline centre where we were going.

I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

I realise now.

The warnings were there.

Firstly there was the participation waiver I had to sign.

It exonerated the centre for any injuries, in case of falls, sprains, burns or fractures whether sustained participating in the activities, mounting or alighting the equipment or at any point, on or off premises, within a fourteen-day window or forty-mile radius of the Bounce Ninja Centre.

If you fall on your bonce then, literally and figuratively, on your own head be it.

So thorough was this waiver that, should any of our party still be unscathed after sixty minutes, they would reserve the right to send Big Terry round to do our knees, and then bill us for the use of his hammer.

And if the waiver wasn’t evidence enough; when I arrived with four, or maybe five, small boys there was a paramedic ambulance parked outside.

This may seem like simple bad luck. But when we left, I noticed it had been parked in a designated ambulance parking bay! It’s bad enough to have an accident that needed an ambulance, but to have one so often as to require a bay?

That’s just stupid.

It falls somewhere between where I used to tape my ears down to reduce the risk of them being sheared off in a rugby scrum, and when I used to work in A&E in Leicester, and the motorcycle track at Donnington Park would call to warn us and to check availability of ITU beds on race day.

So in I went with the five, or maybe four, small boys.

“Can we get a drink, Dad?”

“OK.”

So I accidentally buy five bottomless Slush Puppies (which I’ve not yet apologised to the other parents for).

I collected in four, or was it five, sets of trainers and anoraks.

As a conscientious parent, I also collected in three pairs of specs (not covered by the accidental damage waiver) and sent the boys in to play.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, I had three pairs of glasses and had just sent a bunch of small boys into the head-injury capital of Greater Manchester over-excited, high on sugar… and blind!

And also, because I’d collected in all the anoraks, I couldn’t remember what any of them were wearing, so I couldn’t keep an eye on them from the viewing gallery. So I bought a coffee. And there I sat on the viewing gallery, with a Grande cup of scalding hot liquid, leaning on a barrier overlooking an inflatable play-park…

Don’t worry. 

I didn’t.

And, to my relief, the siren went at the end of our hour and all three, or was it four, small, sweaty, over-excited boys turned up.

“Let’s go!” I enthused; job well done.

“Where’s Peter?” asks the boy.

Oh.

“We’ll wait here.  He knows where we are”

But he didn’t.

Fifteen minutes later I decided…  “Right, you lot go back in and find him.  I’ll wait here.  What could possibly go wrong?”

Somewhat inevitably, fifteen further minutes later, I was sitting on the balcony with Peter, waiting for the others to realise they were on a fool’s errand and come back.

And when finally, having learned a) how hard it can be and b) what can possibly go wrong, I relaxed as I drove them home.

At least I didn’t have to do this for another 365 days.

In fact 366, because next year is a leap year.

But if any of them dare to even suggest doing any actual leaping:  I’m sending them straight round to Big Terry.