The hard way, I might add.  This is where I spent about 85% of my childhood, this exact trampoline.  And over thirty years later it still stands in my parent’s back yard.  I remember when we first got it, Dad drummed in to us that we could not exceed the maximum weight capacity it could hold.  I could barely count to five or tie my shoes let alone add up but that did not stop me quizzing everyone who wanted to have a jump on how much they weighed.  It went, “I weigh three stone, how much to you weigh?” –  cue piercing, accusatory stare.  Nowadays I think my handbag is the only thing that weighs three stone! 

One Christmas a few years ago that I remember fondly involved many hours on there with my youngest niece teaching her the finer points of double bouncing and also doing multiple hip-swivel manoeuvres.  So the following year when I trekked home for Christmas I wasn’t surprised to find her waiting for me on the tramp (as us cool kids called it).  I didn’t stay on it long, and had been in the door even less time, but some hours later I couldn’t move.  At all.  Something  in my back had zigged when it should have zagged and now I had pinched a nerve.  The three hundred bucks it cost me to fix it taught me a very valuable lesson; I am too old for this shit anymore.  And so this past Christmas the closest I got to the tramp was this photo.