FOAM ALONE

The Hard Truth about Soft Play*

 *well, not really. It’s a strapline as sensational as it is disingenuous.

Very recently, I took my son to the soft play centre for an exhausting but rewarding bout of father-son sodding about. A crucial parental duty, it involves trying to tire out someone at least a tenth of my age before quickly realising that actually, three year olds are essentially fully-clothed, fleshy Duracells, whilst thirty-something adults need only stay up a bit late just one evening to render an entire fortnight a complete bleary-eyed write-off.

Spot the window: not a common game at soft play

Weirdly, I’ve never been to a soft play centre that has a natural light source. Much like their adult counterparts, casinos, they’re a window-free reality block-out, constructing their own Day-Glo artifice in place of an unpredictable, grim and sometimes cruel outside world. Soft play is always bright and colourful – eyeball-strainingly so.

Funderzone in Barnstaple. Their spelling, not mine.

There is etiquette in soft play world. Shoes off, naturally. Socks on, sensibly. Try never to engage with another parent’s child, no matter how distressed or eager it seems to be. I committed that sin just the other day. A pair of excitable brothers decided that my son and I would play the role of monsters and they, the heroes, would chase us through the centre’s various obstacles until satisfactorily vanquished. We played along gamely for all of a minute until:

a)      my son became genuinely frightened and

b)      the elder of the two children launched himself onto my leg right in front of his bewildered father.

Awkwardly trying to brush the child off with the least casual chuckle I’ve ever mustered made no difference, so had to apologetically pull the boy’s remarkably tight grip from my thigh with a certain degree of force.

Swearing at soft play is a big no-no, obviously. Hey, I don’t put on Goodfellas during the day, because I don’t want said film’s colourful language echoing around my kids’ cochleas. If they picked it up at a children’s activity centre, I’d be muthafuckin’ livid.

"Try the fucking monkey bars you chimp-ass motherfucker"

As it happens, swearing is just the tip of the language iceberg – there’s potentially loads of things you wouldn’t want to hear at soft play:

“Can’t believe I failed my CRB check again…”

“Ticket for one adult spectator please.”

“Rose! Have you shit in the ball pool?”

"Dad! I've broken my leg!"
"Hang on, I'm just updating Facebook to say what a great parent I am"

This takes us to the parents, of course, without whom none of the children would be there, quite literally. They’re a curious bunch, the Mums and Dads of soft play. The Dads seem either forlorn or furious, often during the same sentence. Mums tend to assimilate into small groups: whether they arrive like this or just naturally form these daytime Diasporas, I’m not entirely sure. Each Mum takes it in impatient turn to bark at each another facts of minimal interest concerning their child’s development progress before pretending to listen to their companion’s similar nugget of nothing.

A lot of parents don’t even bother to hide their indifference, taking rare opportunity to bury their head in the distracting glow of a smartphone without guilt, as their offspring hurl themselves with glee through one hundred square foot of foam-padded scaffolding. I should probably add here that I’m not judging anyone. It’s really not my place to do so and besides, it’s all some can do for a moment’s relative peace. And anyway, what else am I doing whilst this is taking place, except mentally concocting notes to write this? You sanctimonious shitsack, Miles.

Soft play can be stomach-churningly sweaty. Because soft play is bloody knackering, especially for a fully grown man who is categorically not dressed for a workout (there’s a reason Usain Bolt doesn't break world records whilst rocking a pair of Levis you know). Negotiating the cramped play frames, scramble nets, and tight plastic crawl tubes can be so physically demanding, I find myself heading off regularly to the giant air cannons for a quick cool down gust (that in no way looks weird. Not one bit).

Cargo netting: cheesewire for feet

The rope bridge walkways are the worst. Children, who are relatively light, can withstand easily the press of foot on tangled chord. Conversely, an adult’s full body weight bearing down on a mesh of thick rope feels like you’re being forced through a giant bloody sieve. I then spend the rest of the day treading everywhere gingerly as if the world’s floor space has been strewn with scattered Lego bricks and shattered glass shards.

There is nothing else quite like soft play: for an activity that forces frequent encroachment on your personal space, it's startlingly impersonal. The climbing frame gets a sunroof, steel bars are cushioned with spongy foam, and freedom of movement meets rules of engagement.

I like soft play; it’s reassuringly peculiar and refreshingly pretension-free. Paying to leave the murk and rain of mid-December to run around in a live action cartoon seems a pretty good deal, and am happy to indulge the children for as long as they find it worthwhile.

Even if you do run the occasional risk of tumbling into a puddle of toddler piss.

Wee!