Chainsaw
Last Wednesday morning I dropped my phone on the baby’s head. After a long battle, I’d finally got him to sleep on my chest and thought I’d reward myself by catching up with important world events, i.e., scroll through Instagram with dead eyes. I spent comfortably too long watching a man I worked with briefly in 2014 dancing in his kitchen before being drawn in by Gary Barlow’s latest crooner session. This is when the phone slipped out of my hand. The baby, Jacob (I need to start calling him by his name), stirred and looked extremely pissed off for a second but thankfully didn’t wake up. However, the catastrophist in me worried I might have concussed him in his sleep. Knocking out my baby to the soundtrack of a Gary Barlow and Claire from Steps duet would have been a new lockdown low. Jacob was, I’m pleased to report, absolutely fine.
The mishap, though, set the tone for the rest of a day where I was, almost exclusively, useless as a human being. Here is my highlights reel:
- While lugging a too-heavy-but-didn’t-want-to-admit-it garden sleeper into the back garden, I whacked over Louise’s drink and smashed the glass (then blamed her for leaving it on the step — “an insane place to put a glass.”)
- I forgot to prepare milk for Jacob at a crucial time.
- I forgot to put a nappy on Joshua pre-nap so he woke up in a soaked bed, shouting.
- I lost the baby monitor.
- I didn’t defrost the salmon for dinner so we had toast in stony silence.
The day reminded me of learning to drive where one early mistake and I’d lose my head, with lessons rapidly descending into wrong lanes, hill-start back rolling, mid-roundabout stalls and, once, my traumatized instructor having to grab the wheel so I didn’t plough into an Eddie Stobart truck.
“Shall we call it a day there, Andrew?”
Anyway, after the salmon incident, with the emotional maturity of a 15-year-old who has just found out the girl he fancies is texting his mate, I sat on the sofa and said.
“This is shit. Lockdown is shit. I hate everything.”
I’m 33 with 2 children. With the benefit of hindsight, a better response, might have been to, I don’t know, say sorry? When you’ve had a day like this, it is difficult to know what your next move is. Everything was my fault so I had no right to storm out. Besides, where do you storm to when you can’t leave the house? The loft? The Wi-Fi is sketchy at best.
After a spat a few years ago, I stormed out but forgot my wallet and keys. With no plan, I ended up in a dark corner of a Wacky Warehouse pub, watching Birmingham vs Aston Villa and praying the barmaid wouldn’t ask me to leave for not buying a drink. It was a dour match and, on the way home, I had to text Louise asking her to put the key under the wheelie bin. That taught her a lesson.
This time, I uttered a meek apology but, unable to accept I am this shit, apportioned some (almost all) of the blame to the high pollen count. With all that’s going on at present, us hay-fever sufferers aren’t getting enough coverage. I should, though, probably wait until lockdown measures are further loosened before I ask Chris Martin if he’s up for recording a fundraising single. Fever la Vida? My excuse didn’t wash and I vowed to improve as a husband, father and man.
I got through Thursday unscathed and, by VE day on Friday, life was looking rosier. It was a beautiful day and, with union jacks and bunting lining the street, there was a jovial atmosphere. Small talk, though, not suited to shouting over a road.
“WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO?”
“NOT MUCH. YOU?”
“WHAT?”
After spending the morning in the garden, the lads went down for their naps (without having anything dropped on their heads) and I went inside for a bit. I made a cup of tea, put World Cup rewind on the i-player and, for the first time in days, felt relaxed.
Ten minutes later, Louise came in from the garden.
“Good news, Andy!”
“Go on…”
“The neighbours have offered to lend us their chainsaw so you can cut the tree down!”
Obviously, I don’t have a clue how to use a chainsaw and this was not good news. I went outside and the guy next door, a joiner, casually passed the chainsaw over the fence and advised me how to use it. As is so often the case when people give me instructions, I nodded but didn’t really listen.
Tough guy
Before I attempted to get it started, Louise decided she was concerned by my attire of shorts and slippers and made me put trousers, a coat, gloves and goggles on. I drew the line when she suggested wellies. I went back outside looking like, what’s the word here? Ah, yes, a dickhead. I pushed the ignition button and pulled the starter rope several times until my arm hurt. No dice.
“Just ask him to show you again, Andy,” Louise said.
The days of my cup of tea and watching Gary Lineker score a penalty against Cameroon seemed a distant memory. I leaned over the fence, interrupted my neighbour playing on a trampoline with his kids and asked if he could show me again, “please, because I can’t do it.” This did wonders for my male pride.
“It’s ok, I’ll just get it started for you, mate.”
I handed it over glumly, he pulled the lead a few times and got it whirring. No problem at all. He was wearing, by the way, only a pair of shorts. Shirtless. He handed it back and I shakily took it from him. I don’t know what I was expecting but a chainsaw is really, really loud and, at this point, the neighbours were all sat out in their gardens. I went over to the tree and, with no plan, just stuck the chainsaw aimlessly into the middle of it.
As my whole body vibrated and bark skimmed into my face, I weighed up the possible scenarios here; best case would be to successfully cut the tree down but annoy everyone on our street. Not great? Would a broken chainsaw but all my limbs remaining be a decent outcome? I sawed the tree for 10 seconds then, considered the worst case, and thought, forget this. Switched it off. Chainsaws are terrifying. Through a gritted teeth smile, I handed it back to my neighbour hoping to never see it again.
“Shall I just pop around and do it for you?” he said.
This was a very kind offer but I didn’t feel comfortable getting a man I barely know to do unpaid labour for me on a bank holiday because I was scared.
“No, thanks. We’ve got a handsaw so I’ll just use that.”
“Suit yourself. That’ll take forever though.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I left it half an hour, sulked a bit, then returned to the garden with our handsaw. As I stood on a wobbling chair and struggled to saw through a meagre branch while twigs fell on my head, Louise, sat in the sun eating a watermelon, put the song “Walking on Sunshine” on her phone. She assures me she wasn’t taking the piss.
For the rest of the afternoon, Louise and I took turns to hack at the lower branches, then worked together — Louise holding my feet as I stood midway up a neighbouring tree— to get to the top ones. After the lads had gone to bed, we finally toppled the tree at 8.45 pm and celebrated with a glass of Prosecco as the sun was setting. It was very satisfying. Did it make up for my nightmare Wednesday and shameful emasculation with the chainsaw?
I wouldn’t say so, no.
Thank you for reading!
This week’s blog is dedicated to Paula Briggs. Rest in peace x
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