Stuck in soft play hell on a Sunday – and it’s at my own home | Steve Canavan

Mrs Canavan, in her wisdom – and because she has this misguided notion that we should do fun things with our children instead of letting them just watch TV and be bored like I did when I was a kid – ordered a load of soft play equipment to be delivered to our house.

‘It only costs 30 quid for the day – absolute bargain,’ she announced, without any apparent sarcasm.

She told me this late on Saturday night, as I was watching Match of the Day, presumably on the assumption I might be in a good mood and would take the news well.

She was mistaken.

‘30 quid. Soft play. My house?’ I exploded in a disorientated furious outburst, struggling to process the bombshell news and not sure which aspect I was most upset about.

‘Yes, great isn’t it,’ said Mrs Canavan, who I’m fairly positive chooses to completely ignore my outbursts in a bid to – successfully – enrage me further.

‘In the morning we’ve got Gracie and Tim coming round,’ she added, ‘and after dinner Jenny is bringing her two little ones to join the fun.’

Fun? FUN.

I couldn’t believe this.

I was being informed, at 11pm on a Saturday night, that in a few short hours my abode – the one place where I can have privacy and can relax – was about to be turned into a children’s play area.

I clearly had to evacuate the scene, so I messaged three of my closest friends to ask if they wanted to go walking.

They were all busy.

I messaged four other, let’s say, peripheral friends, who I don’t really care for but they’re handy in an emergency, and asked if they wanted to do anything.

They too had things on.

In desperation I even messaged Duncan, a lad I met on holiday in Torquay several years ago and ill-advisedly swapped numbers with.

I don’t remember much about him other than he did impressions of people from off the telly, his breath had a strange aroma – like my shorts after a long game of badminton – and that I took a strong dislike to him.

‘Hi Duncan. Hope you’re well. I know it’s been seven years since we last spoke but do you fancy hanging out all day tomorrow?’

Strangely he didn’t reply.

Even my mother and sisters were busy and so it was on Sunday morning that I found myself answering the door at 8am to a woman who had parked outside in a transit van containing more inflatables, slides, toys, ball pools, and general kids stuff than you’d find in five Wacky Warehouses.

In short it was my worst nightmare.

‘Listen,’ I said quietly after answering the door.

‘The wife’s upstairs and out of ear shot. If I give you 40 quid, will you leave, then phone and say you’ve come down with a bad cough and temperature and can’t get the gear to us today?’

She gave me a look most woman give me – disdain mixed with pity mixed with hatred – and barged past carrying a red and blue swing.

‘Ok, 50 quid then – final offer,’ I pleaded.

She ignored me.

Mrs Canavan came down the stairs.

‘Oh brilliant, it’s here,’ she said, again without any hint of sarcasm.

‘You’re not actually excited about today are you?’ I asked, stunned.

‘Yes I am,’ she replied, cheerful smile on her face, before adding slightly pointedly, ‘and I’m sure the children will have a great time and that’s what it’s all about isn’t it?’

It reminded me that I often think this is where I’m going wrong in parenthood.

I still expect things to revolve around me and am slightly bitter that the children seem to get priority.

It’s not fair. What about my feelings?

I’m 44 and have a limited time left.

The kids are under the age of three and will probably live for ages.

Should we not, therefore, be doing the stuff I want to do first, like travelling around Australia on a tour of provincial cricket grounds?

My thoughts were broken by Mrs Canavan asking me to help carry a giant ball pool through the door, and soon the entire kitchen was covered in toys.

‘I’ll be back at six to pick them up,’ said the soft-play woman.

‘Six?’ I stammered, ‘no, no, no, you don’t have to wait till then. You can come sooner, say 10am?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ interjected Mrs Canavan, ‘I’ve booked it for the whole day.’

I came within a whisker of crying.

Our children, Mary and Wilf were, as you’d expect, high as kites and spent the next (very long) nine hours bouncing around the kitchen, falling off things, crying, getting back on, falling off again, crying again, but generally having the absolute time of their lives.

I meanwhile had a headache within half an hour and – like Captain Oates at the South Pole – said to Mrs Canavan, slightly dramatically, ‘I am just going outside and maybe some time’.

Unlike Oates I didn’t walk off and die, although – after a full day of soft play – a little part of my soul possibly did.

Parenthood. Don’t you just love it?

Footnote: Despite my miserable ramblings, I must confess the woman who delivered the soft play was absolutely lovely and that my children probably had the best day of their lives so far.

It turns out, I reluctantly concede, that hiring soft play was a great idea… just as long as it doesn’t happen too often.