The Tipping Point

Clear outs, crossed wires and a caffeine overload.

Photo by Elena Mozhvilo on Unsplash

On Saturday 4^th January, I promised Louise I would go to the tip. Along with a memory foam mattress, a paddling pool, and a load of old furniture, there were piles upon piles of cardboard (my wife is a wonderful woman, but I don’t necessarily love her tendency to place Amazon boxes, fully formed, on top of our recycling bin) and the scene in our drive had become, frankly, antisocial.

“Right, I’m going to smash everything up,” I said, clutching some tools.

“That’s great, Andy,” Louise said, less impressed than I’d hoped by my macho statement. “I’m off to the gym.”

Leeds United had just squandered a two-goal lead against Hull City so destroying an outdoor guinea pig cage with a hammer was, it turned out, quite cathartic. As I was sawing the legs off a fourth dining room chair, though, enthusiasm was waning.

Sweating and cursing under my breath, I was surprised to see my parents’ car pulling up on the street.

“Hello, Andrew,” my dad said, getting out.

Now, I am not proud of what followed but, before we get there, two important points:

1. While smashing up furniture, I had not kept an eye on a family WhatsApp group. The (always gripping) conversation had moved on from my upcoming tip trip to Louise asking my dad to borrow his electric drill for an unrelated matter. He had replied saying we were in the luck; he and my mum were in the area WITH DRILL - because what kind of dad doesn’t keep an electric drill in their boot at all times? – and would drop it off shortly.

2. In my head - because I am a calm, rational and normal person who isn’t unhealthily emotionally impacted by some men I do not know kicking a ball around in Humberside - I jumped to a rather wild conclusion: I thought my parents had come over because they’d deemed me incapable of going to a tip on my own.

“Why are you here? I’m not completely incompetent.”

“Oh, we just…” my mum started.

“No, this is ridiculous. I’m 38! THIRTY-EIGHT!”

“Right, sorry, Andrew,” my dad said. “I was just dropping off my electric drill.”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I DON’T NEED A DRILL. I’M GOING TO THE TIP!”

My parents looked completely baffled, then sheepishly made their way back to the car, my dad with drill in hand, while I went inside and shut the front door slightly harder than necessary. I sat on the sofa with Joshua and Jacob, who were glued to Horrid Henry, oblivious to my dark mood, and did some deep breathing techniques until Louise returned from the gym.

“Did your parents drop the drill off, Andy?” she asked, breezily.

“Why is everyone talking about a drill?”

She explained.

I read the WhatsApp messages. Felt very foolish indeed. Called my parents to apologize.

“Right, I’m going to the tip now…” I said, dusk falling.

I checked the address online and discovered it was closed.

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

That night it snowed. It really, really snowed.

Photo by Jasmin Schuler on Unsplash

Long story short: we had a snow-capped rubbish mountain in our drive for the next 13 days and I did not - in my defence, literally could not - go to the tip.

On Friday 17^th January, I tried again. Given the weather, the binmen hadn’t shown up, so I had the added joy of loading sacks of guinea pig shit into the boot making the short drive to the tip, honestly, unbearable.

This was my tip debut (I’m aware this is poor) and I was nervous on arriving. One of my mates had recounted a horror story of being turned away due to his car being too big and, as I pulled up at the entrance, the feeling was not dissimilar to attempting to get into a nightclub underage: act cool, don’t draw attention to myself.

I wound the window down.

“Alright, pal,” a man said.

“Alright… pal,” I replied.

Oh, God, I thought. Why am I overemphasizing my Yorkshire accent? Why do I feel the need to do that sometimes?

The man was helpful, shepherding me in and advising me what went where. I offloaded the guinea pig shit quick-sharp, then, with the winter sun shining, marched back and forth to the car, chucking various items into enormous skips, occasionally nodding and sharing flat smiles with other tip-goers. Every one of them a man. I have never felt more masculine in all my life.

I had, genuinely, a great time.

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The day after my belated tip trip/roaring success, it was Jacob’s birthday party at a local soft play centre. Louise generally does the heavy lifting with party organizing (we play to our strengths) and she and two other mums had arranged a full class do, co-hosted with two of his friends.

This meant 30 sugar-wired children first thing on a Saturday morning so, aware of the perils of being worse for wear at a soft play, I abstained from booze the previous night. I did, however, have a cold and alongside my morning coffee (a Nespresso Fortado - Level 8 strength), I double-dropped Lemsip Max tablets and was, I kid you not, absolutely wired. Bouncing off the walls.

Sadly, Jacob has an injured shoulder at the moment, so he couldn’t get in the soft play himself. After he did it (a seemingly innocuous sofa tumble) I’d said, “We’ll just have to call the whole thing off!” whereas Louise calmly contacted the organizers and arranged an arts and crafts table as an alternative which went down a storm. Given my heightened state, I was enjoying it as much as anyone, energetically applying dinosaur tattoos to his classmates and peppering them with questions:

“So, are you enjoying the party? What do you think of this soft play? You had a good week at school? Great, they’re playing the Moana song - this one’s a banger. What’s your favourite Disney song?” etc.

Didn’t get much back, if I’m honest.

I am well-versed in soft play parties now (7 years and counting) and have a good tactic when it comes to the dinner and cake bit; I pour drinks for the kids, so I look helpful and have a purpose. A man at a kids’ party needs a purpose otherwise he will just hover around, not knowing what to do with himself until, ultimately, he gets his phone out and his wife shakes her head.

This time, however, my plan backfired. I poured several glasses of water then, a few minutes later, the blackcurrant squash arrived so they all wanted that instead. Obviously. Trying to transfer the waters back into the beaker, hands still quivering from my caffeine overload, I enviously overheard some other dads discussing Leeds United’s need to buy “a quality number 10” and did not feel quite so smug.

Anyway, enough about me. Louise had baked a fantastic cake (above), we all sang “Happy Birthday” and Jacob and his friends had a blast. He did’t complain about his injury once, bless him. He is a tough cookie and I couldn’t be more proud of him or Joshua, who has been kind and supportive since it happened. They really have one another’s backs, which is just lovely. At the disco at the end, I just about managed to stop myself from wrapping my arms around them and saying, “Do you know what, guys? I BLOODY LOVE YOU.”

Back home, we were exhausted - I was now in comedown territory - and we slumped on the sofa to watch the boys unwrap Jacob’s presents.

“Ah, fantastic. Another dinosaur fossil kit!” I said, looking forward to sweeping fake rock fragments off our kitchen floor continually for the foreseeable.

Jacob’s friends – ok, let’s be honest, their parents – were very generous and he was pleased with his haul. 30 presents is an awful lot, though. Too many? It certainly creates absolutely loads of rubbish.

“I think you might need to take another trip to the ti…”

“Don’t you worry about that, Louise. I’m on it.”

Can’t wait.

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Thanks for reading! I normally throw out a couple of questions here to open up a discussion but not sure if, “Do you have any good tip tales?” really cuts it? If you’d like to comment on any aspect of this week’s blog, though, please do go ahead!

Cheers,

Andy