Bounce, bounce bounce.

Tam nearly broke his neck on one. Pauline has the biggest in town and it blew right over the house in a storm. It seems hardly a day goes by in the surgery without some reference being made to that modern recreational and sporting phenomenon, the trampoline.

There are several theories as to the origins of the trampoline. One is that the Inuits used to toss each other about on a stretched walrus skin. Lacking classical literature or even a TV, they may indeed have done this for an evening's entertainment, but the more plausible explanation is that the modern trampoline originated from an early 20^th century circus act. It seems, clowns jumping about on a springy surface covered with blankets resembling a bed, was hysterical to audiences at that time. Naturally, the bed sheets didn't stay on and the firm elasticated surface was soon exposed. It was discovered that the trampoline, as well as being rather amusing, was a great form of exercise and required a certain skill. Pilots during the second war and NASA astronauts used the device for fitness and weightless training. It took until the 2000 Olympic Games in Sydney before trampolining was recognized as an individual discipline in Gymnastics. It seems now that no self-respecting garden is without one and the bigger the better. I am all in favour of this popularity as this on-the-spot aerobic exercise may be a means of slowing the obesity epidemic plaguing this country. Unfortunately though, I have seen some rather serious injuries and would advise that, at all skill levels, a protective fencing or guard is placed around.

What is of concern though is when fat dads at barbecues, having consumed rather too much white wine or beer, relent to the chants of the kids to join them on the trampoline. “Come on dad/uncle/mister, bounce us higher.” Challenged by this invitation, fat dad hands his glass to the nearest wary mum, pulls off his shoes and rolls onto the canvas. He finds the spring to his liking and as the burgers and booze are thrown around inside, he feels both nauseated and young again. After cheers of encouragement, he thinks a few bottom-bounces and splits will raise a laugh amongst the onlookers. Dad's jeans and general stiffness only lend themselves to little less than a 45-degree parting of the legs, but he is undeterred and only further exhilarated. So keen to please, he has forgotten the eight pre-school kids sitting crossed-legged at the side or frantically trying to bounce as high as he does (by virtue only of his weight!) What happens next I saw in agonizing slow-motion. You can probably visualize it too. Dad, after his 43^rd breathless bounce, fails to see wee Tibia Brayke crawling beneath him. With a bone-crunching, deadened bounce onto the 3-year-old, the fun is over. Tibia's shriek could be heard well beyond the safety net, garden fence and possibly the estate itself. I could have kicked myself for not telling the fool to stop, mindful of the danger he presented. He probably had imbibed no more than I and our body masses were fairly comparable, but my guilt would have weighed a little less heavily that evening.

A wide, enclosed, well anchored and secluded trampoline is hard to beat. We acquired one, ostensibly for the grandchildren, but on a summer's evening I slip off the sandals and sneak down to the bottom of the garden. There, next to the rhubarb patch, carefully out of sight of neighbours and dogwalkers, I spring into action. Working up a rhythm, to the point of seeing beyond the Leylandii, I bounce and bounce 'til my beating heart's content. Trampolining is all about fun and, boy, is it ever?

Dr Ken B Moody