Probation and Parenting (part 3)
Heroin, a lock-in, and socializing with a baby.
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 and part 2 here.
“Sorry to hear you’ve relapsed, Darren. Did anything happen to trigger it?”
“My hay-fever has been shocking.”
“I’m aware it’s been a high pollen count, but could you not have gone for Benadryl rather than heroin?”
“Um…”
“How are you feeling about being in court next week?”
“They’re saying I stole some perfume from Boots, Andy. Bullshit.”
“Really?”
“I was just browsing.”
“The report says you had three bottles of Channel No. 5 down your trousers, Darren?”
“My hands were full.”
“Did you kick a security guard?”
“It was self-defence. If the legal system in this country was fair, he’d be in court, not me.”
Although Darren assured me that he was done with drugs and, to his credit, there was nothing to indicate he’d stolen a bus recently, I sensed his rehabilitation was unlikely anytime soon. I’d known him for a while and, no matter how many worksheets we completed, he just kept taking drugs and reoffending.
I recommended he go to a chemist – not Boots - and buy some antihistamines, then sent him on his way. He’d been over an hour late, leaving me as the last person in the office on a Friday afternoon.
I’d cycled to work and changed back into my gear, which included some frankly offensive Lycra shorts, before going to fill up my water bottle. Coming back out into the corridor, I realized I’d left my lanyard and key card on the other side of a door which had slammed shut behind me, along with my phone, laptop, a ham sandwich, and anything else that might help in a crisis.
My plight drew parallels with Anton who’d got stuck in this very same purgatory, and my initial instinct was to laugh. However, as I remembered how late it was, the severity of the situation struck, and I began to panic. Am I going to be here all weekend?
I was, at least, accompanied by the free vending machine so I could survive on Cup-a-Soup and tepid coffee for the next 60-or-so hours if need be, but this was very bleak. Very bleak indeed. Head in hands, I felt a gut punch of dread:
Shit, shit, shit. I might miss the football tomorrow.
Really, this concern should have been significantly below things such as:
Terrifying my wife by not returning home.
Not seeing my wife and baby all weekend.
Having to quit my job out of embarrassment.
However, in my defence, England were in the quarter final of the World Cup, and this doesn’t happen very often. In desperation, I began pounding on the door, shouting,
“Help!”
Nothing.
I paced up and down the corridor a few times, then resumed whacking the door until my knuckles bled and there was sweat dripping down my temples. Eventually, I crumpled on the floor, defeated.
Half an hour later, I heard footsteps. I feared I’d have lost it and was experiencing auditory hallucinations but, to my relief, saw the Head of Service (the most senior person in our region) magically appear.
“What on earth is going on, Andrew?” she asked as she opened the door.
“Well…”
“Have you been crying?”
I explained the situation and fortunately, she saw the funny side. Thank God she’d worked late.
I checked my phone to see a text from Louise.
“Are you nearly home? Dinner is on the table.”
I rang to explain. She called me a prat but did not, I don’t think, see the funny side. Joshua had been crying a lot all day, she said. Teething.
The following morning, the stress had dissipated, replaced by excitement about the match. It was beautiful day and my mate had set up a TV and beer fridge in his back garden. I couldn’t wait.
“Do you mind if me and Joshua come along?” Louise said as I was calling a taxi, “I think it will be fun.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, we are getting quite into the football,” she said, raising Joshua’s chubby hand in the air, “C’mon England!”
Louise pretended to have a passing interest in football for the first six months of our relationship, but the mask dropped when I took her to Elland Road to watch Leeds vs Hartlepool in the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy (“Why is everyone shouting?”) and I would now describe her as actively disliking it.
“Could you not watch it at home?”
“I’ve been with Joshua all week, Andy. I’d quite like some adult company.”
This was, of course, completely fair enough, but… no. Actually, no buts. Don’t be a dick, don’t be a dick, don’t be a dick, I told myself.
I smiled and nodded (then went a bit quiet.)
Louise refused to take Joshua in a taxi so drove the short distance to my mate’s house where we joined a crowd of friends - two other babies present, at least - and took our seats around the TV. While England sang the national anthem, she asked if I could hold Joshua while she accepted a substantial glass of wine from my mate’s wife.
“Oh. Aren’t you driving?” I asked.
“Well, I drove here. It’s okay if you drive back, right?”
I opened a can of Sprite and sulked until England scored and the crowd broke into delirium, hugging and shouting. Obviously, Joshua started bawling.
“Andy, it’s too loud for him!”
I clenched my jaw and looked to the sky.
“Fine, if you’re not going to do anything, I’ll take him inside,” she snapped.
Hang on? Was she annoyed with me? Come on now?
It turned out to be a comfortable win and, after my friend introduced a bottle of his “best whiskey” (Famous Grouse), the atmosphere was electric by full-time. Three Lions blared out of tinny speakers and my semi-pissed pals booked taxis to town.
“Right, we’ve really got to get Joshua back for his nap,” Louise said, handing me the car keys.
“Sure.”
When we got home, I tried to rock him to sleep in darkness while he cried uncontrollably. I attempted to banish thoughts of my friends, faces painted, dancing in the streets, and reminded myself that I love my wife and baby dearly and life is good.
It was futile. I was so jealous I felt physically sick.
After Joshua eventually settled, I received a text on my work phone. It was from Darren.
Get in, mate. It’s coming home!
Very friendly indeed. Was rapport finally being built? Perhaps the worksheets were starting to get through? As I was considering whether to reply, a second text came through.
Can I get one white and two brown?
Have you texted me instead of your drug dealer, Darren?
No reply.
Work to be done.
Thanks for reading! This is the last part of this little series for now, but I will probably write more about it down the line as the pieces seem to have gone down pretty well. Please do like/share etc. again and I’d love to hear your thoughts and stories about 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.
Hahah great stuff 😁 but seriously you have a free vending machine ? In adult social care can’t even get a free tea bag 😂😂
This series has 100% sitcom potential. I smell BAFTA!