So. The story of the ankle and the trampoline. I did the ankle at my cousin Matt’s wedding about four years ago. Fell off a silly be-ribboned double-decker bus - I am told I was holding a sunflower in a pot, but I don’t remember that part. I turned it, and my cousin Amy’s fiancé applied his first aid skills and we all had a drink in my hotel room while I iced it. And the next day I drove back from Whitstable to London.
Occasionally my ankle reminded me of the trouble I had put it through by twingeing in my ballet class or burning in the shower. But mainly the trauma of six months of physio I endured faded, though, like a good girl, I still wore the orthotics in my shoes that had been made for me after I got referred for being wonky.
Then, we moved to Anerley, to a house with a garden bigger than our wildests and the kids went on and on about a) getting a cat and b), getting a trampoline. As a) was too much furry hassle and jabs, I thought b) a better bet. Though it seemed an unlikely prospect as winter dragged its heels and the idea of going outside for pleasure was a distant memory. Then, I had a daft brainwave and invited Jon’s family for Easter. What was I thinking? But the deed was done and I was looking forward to being the one that did the entertaining for once. And Uncle Bob is a handy sort of bloke who might help Daddy put up such a thing as a trampoline.
I scoured the net. Argos it was. But I had left it late and the holiday was days away and our adventures with ordering mattresses and things had taught me that the asterisked “two days delivery” meant it was a subjective remark meaning, “two days or more from when we decide we can be arsed." There is a branch in Peckham. A particularly small and hot version. I hate it. But they had the right trampoline in stock. Just one. At a sale price. I reserved it immediately and printed off the confirmation, setting aside Maunday Thursday to collect it, sinner that I am.
Rye Lane is a challenge at the best of times. I am not snobby about it though, even though it is known as Peck-Narm, like Vietnam, in our family. No. I use Rye Lane when necessary and have never found it too much trouble, so long as you keep your hand on your purse and walk quickly on dark days. I use the stacker carpark because it is always empty, empty, empty. And cheap too. So this is where I parked. But as I then went up then down the concrete steps to the cobbly side bit near the cinema, I began to wonder about the size of the trampoline. Shame that hadn’t occurred to me before. Shame it hadn’t occurred to the reservation form I’d filled out.
However, I am an optimist, even as I enter Dantés Argos pre-Easter and all the blow-up beds and garden furniture that implies. I march up to the counter.. Well, wait ten minutes in a roped off queuing area and then do my marching, and the nice girl looks up my reservation and comments that the item is quite big. Did I have a car? Yes, in the stacker but could I bring it to the front of the shop? She shook her head. No end of trouble, she said. The parking people would have me jumping like a fox on a trampoline (I couldn’t wait to tell the kids about those YouTube vids but had waited off because this was going to be one big Easter surprise, hell or otherwise).
And it was big. And in two parts weighing more than twenty kilos each. I asked if I could borrow a member of staff to help me get it to the stacker but the guy in charge in a cheap suit looked at me as if I had spoken in Russian, before going off to frisk a couple of assistants who were going out for a sandwich.
The girl manning the counter where the goods inexplicably take a dog’s age to arrive while the crowds swell said that if I left my mobile phone, they would lend me a trolley. Cheap suit shot her a look that said she didn’t need to be quite so helpful but my posh, white girl’s delight scared him sufficiently to agree to the plan. So I handed over the Blackberry, how funny is that? I just handed it over! And took possession of half a trampoline balanced on upright porter’s wheels. The audience waiting for their hairdryers and pouffs and sleeping bags watched me as I drove the load around them and out through the unswishing doors.
At this point, Rye Lane had decided to go from its customary colourful, laid back trail of bus and shopper to traffic frenzy with nose to tail delivery lorries, phalanxes of pushchairs, reversing nutters in beamers and a whole stage set of preachers and god knows what and I, saying “excuse me” and “thankyou” and “sorry” and “excuse me” with a good clipped Surrey vowels had to get this really heavy awkward box around it all. Then there were the cobbles. I got across the road in one piece, but the noise of me rattling over the cobbles shut everyone up and a million eyes swivelled to divine the source of the racket.
Then, I got to the concrete steps. Uckinell! went the echo through the deserted multi-storey, many, many times. I couldn’t haul the trolley up so pulled the box off and dragged it by those horrid plastic straps that choke swans and slice hands. Then whacking my legs a hundred times, I got the trolley and reloaded it and finally got to the car. Which, naturally, was full of swimming floats because my last lessons of term were that evening. And I had to pick Fred up from school in about twenty-five minutes. Hmm. I slid the box onto the back seat and reader, rattled all the way back, across the road, through the crowd waiting for their hairdryers and queued, yes queued, because this is not a place where one catches an eye, and eventually got the second half of the trampoline. Whereupon, to the thrill of the audience and the preachers outside, I got to reprise my role as a total plonker.
Once again I clattered dangerously and publicly to the stacker. The car sagged resignedly as I heaved the second box on top of the first, and once again I returned across the cobbles with an empty trolley. And once again, I queued until it was my turn. And they gave me back my mobile phone. And my leg was killing me but I was ultra late and had no choice but to ignore it and fetch my Fred.
Amusingly, he didn’t even notice the two massive boxes on the back seat with TRAMPOLINE DO NOT LIFT stamped all over them. He chatted on from the front seat as I flew him home to his sister and hobbled to open the garage doors, where I was able to hide the ruddy things between all the boxes full of books. My ankle was singing by now. But, I had a pool full of kids and snot to accommodate so got back in the motor and sped off – I’d learnt a few tricks from Rye Lane by now.
Easter went well. Jon’s family were terrific company and Bob, even though he had pleurisy - poor chap - was sublimely tolerant when we handed him a spanner. The children went “wow!” with genuine surprise when amongst the eggs that the Easter Bunny had scattered about the herbaceous borders, they came across two ruddy great boxes with TRAMPOLINE DO NOT LIFT on the side and while the duck roasted, the men raised the barn.
My ankle, meanwhile, swelled to the width of a rolled up Argos catalogue. Six weeks and a small fortune on osteopathy and physio later, the trampoline is lonely in the weeds at the end of garden. I haven’t even had a bounce yet, thanks to the bandages. Soon it will have to be dismantled. Way back at the beginning of this story, I should have ignored b), and gone for a cuddly a) instead. Wouldn't have the house but at least I'd still have a ballet career.
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