Probation and Parenting (part 2)
Tall tales, techno, and baby sensory class.
I joined The Probation Service in July 2017 with nary a grey hair on my head. In November that year, Louise gave birth to our beautiful son Joshua. Here is a snapshot from my life at the time. If you missed it, you can read part 1 here.
“So, how come you missed community service yesterday, Martin?”
“Well, it’s kind of a long story.”
“Go on…”
“My uncle ate some poisonous berries when he was hiking in Macedonia. He started hallucinating and had to be rescued by a helicopter.”
Martin reminded me of Tiddler, a fish in a book we read to Joshua, who “blew small bubbles but told tall tales.” I hadn’t shared this comparison with him as I’d deemed it unlikely that a prolific Eastern European burglar would be familiar with the books of Julia Donaldson.
“Is your uncle okay?”
“A bit sick, but he should be ok,” he said. “It’s been a difficult time for my family.”
“Right. Sorry to hear it. Can you do community service tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. 100%.”
He didn’t show up. When I called him, I could hear violently loud techno music. It was 9 a.m. on a Wednesday.
“HELLO?” he shouted. “WHO’S THIS?”
“What happened, Martin?”
“Andy, my friend. I’ve got no bus fare. I couldn’t get in.”
“Really?”
“Also, can I take a few weeks off to go to Macedonia? I want to see my uncle.”
“If you can’t afford bus fare, how will you pay for flights to Macedonia?”
The line went dead.
I texted Louise to see how her day was going. She sent a video of Joshua rolling around on the floor wearing a nappy and said they were getting ready for baby sensory class.
Despite being at home less than two hours ago, I missed them. I wasn’t enjoying work today, even less so when I received a text from Darren saying: Can’t make appt this aft. Got shits. On toilet now. Men on probation appear to be disproportionately affected by sickness and diarrhoea.
I had an instant coffee, then drove to a home visit to see Paul, a man who was on a suspended sentence order for punching a Tesco’s security guard in the head. To mitigate the risk, I was provided with a panic alarm which I’d forgotten to charge.
The curtains were drawn so I rattled on the door. After a while, I heard footsteps approaching.
“Who’s that?” a voice snapped through the letterbox.
“Hi, Paul, it’s Andy from probation.”
“Have you got some ID?”
“Um, no. Could you not just look through the window?”
“No chance. ID or fuck off. You could be a murderer for all I know.”
I went back to the car, got my driving licence, and posted it through the letterbox. Following an anxious wait where I considered the horrors of DVLA form filling, the door handle turned.
“Andy!” he said, as though the past two minutes had not happened. “How you doing, mate?”
“Fine, thanks.”
The flat stank of cannabis with an elaborate bong set up in the corner of his living room and several empty cans of Carling strewn around. He invited me in where I sat on a pleather sofa in front of an enormous widescreen TV. One of those shows was on where a middle-aged couple from the Midlands open a bar in Spain but it’s much harder than they’d envisaged because the local mayor won’t allow them a late-night licence.
“Nice TV,” I said.
“Thanks, I got a back payment.”
“Sure. So how are you today, Paul?”
“Not good at all, mate. They are after me. All of them.”
“Who are they?”
“Who do you think? My neighbours. They are all talking about me, they’re plotting something.”
“Have you considered cutting down on the weed?”
“I don’t smoke it anymore, Andy. I gave up ages ago.”
“Hmm…”
It was a long appointment, and I was drained when I left.
In a parallel universe, three miles up the road, Joshua’s baby sensory class was starting soon. I remembered Darren’s afternoon cancellation and, for the first time since becoming a parent, made a spontaneous decision: I was going to take a long lunch and surprise Louise at the church hall. Wild.
I was late and arrived, flustered, as “Say Hello to the Sun” was commencing. A circle of 15-20 mums beamed and waved at their babies. No dads. I noticed Louise sat with her NCT friends and caught her eye. I expected a hero’s welcome, but she just looked puzzled and mouthed, “What are you doing here?”
I sat down next to her, greeting her friends with raised eyebrows. As they shuffled around with their babies and rattles, I had a sharp sinking feeling. Was I encroaching? Was this payback for the time Louise insisted on joining me and my pals to watch Soccer Saturday at the pub? (“You’re not even watching football? You’re watching men talking about football? For 3 hours?”)
I shouldn’t be here, I thought. Also, quite literally, I shouldn’t be here. I should be at work.
I explained I’d been on a home visit in the area and, following her initial shock, Louise seemed satisfied with my efforts. Baby sensory class, it turned out, is an absolute blast. Lights, music, and glitter, it was the closest I’d been to a nightclub in years. When the lady put on technicolour disco lights while we held a parachute and bounced inflatable animals into the air, I felt quite a lot like I was on drugs. That said, it’s possible I was feeling the effects of my visit to Paul.
I took the lead in the final activity which involved giving the babies light-up bubble wrap while we sang “Five Little Speckled Frogs.” I couldn’t figure out how to flick the switch and, as the activity started, every baby was gleefully gazing at their lights apart from Joshua who was crying. Louise took over and sorted it out instantly.
“Right, I’d better get back to work,” I said as she was putting an exhausted Joshua in his pram. “What’s your plan for the afternoon?”
“We’re going to the pub. Pizza and Prosecco while the babies nap.”
I got back to the office where nobody commented on my lengthy home visit. However, after glimpsing the maternity high life, my motivation had waned, and I embarked on a negative trail of thought. I was missing a lot of time with Joshua. And for what? None of these guys on probation respected me. They just lied. Was I helping anybody, really? Perhaps I should have stayed in my former job?
I wished Louise and I had discussed shared parental leave in a bit more depth, rather than just:
“Have you considered it, Andy?”
“No. You?”
“No, not really.”
“I guess that’s that then.”
At 4 p.m, I received a call from our receptionist informing me that Martin had come in.
“I walked here, Andy,” he said when I got downstairs. “I want to show you proof about my uncle.”
This should be good, I thought, while he scrolled through his phone before handing it over. On the screen, a foreign news station was playing grainy footage of someone being pulled up into a helicopter while indecipherable text rolled across the bottom of the screen. It then cut to a short interview with a disorientated-looking middle-aged man.
“That’s him!” Martin said, taking the phone back. He then navigated to his photo gallery and showed me a photo of himself with his arm around the middle-aged man, looking considerably less disorientated, in a bar. “This was on holiday last year. We are very close.”
I was astonished. He’d been telling the truth. The narrative arc from Tiddler was complete. Martin did respect me after all.
“So,” I asked him. “Can you do community service tomorrow?”
“Definitely. 100%.”
Obviously, he didn’t show up.
*
Thanks for reading! I’ve been pretty overwhelmed by the response to this series and grateful for all the kind responses. Please do like/share etc. again and I’d love to hear your thoughts and stories with the old work-life balance struggle.
*Obviously, names and some details are changed because, despite what this article might suggest, I enjoy my job and would rather not be sacked.
The fact that there's two "mates" in here and absolutely no flying furniture suggests to me that things are on on the up already.
Also - light up bubble wrap?! Never mind baby sensory class, I need that.
My partner works for the Probation Service, too. All I can say is, yes, this all sounds familiar! (In terms of what he's allowed to divulge, of course!). It makes me wonder about crime fiction, with its genius criminals. As far as I know, my partner has never encountered an offender who is anywhere near a Moriarty (but is that just because they're too much genius to get caught?).