Tim Dowling: I’m a master of speed skipping – watch me jump

During the first half of my working day, I am generally able to leave my office shed for a break in a warm, silent kitchen, where I can drink coffee and stare back out the window at my empty desk with a certain satisfaction. In the afternoons, however, with the winter sun already dipping behind the roofline, the kitchen becomes a hive of inactivity. Whenever I go in, two or more of my sons are to be found hunched over laptops at the kitchen table. Charging cords are stretched across the room at knee height. To the untrained eye, the kitchen looks like a place of business, specifically the kind of tech startup where you’re allowed to turn up for work at three, in bare feet.

“Hey,” I say, pulling the back door shut.

“What’s good?” the youngest one says.

“All right?” the oldest one says. Nobody looks up. I approach the coffee area, which looks as if it has been trashed by a disgruntled ex-employee on his way out the door.

“There’s no milk,” the oldest says.

“I bought milk this morning,” I say.

“Well, it’s gone,” the youngest says.

“There should be no ‘gone’,” I say. “There should be you, going out to get some more.”

“You could get some more,” the oldest says.

“I’m busy,” I say.

“He’s a businessman,” the youngest says, with icy scorn. The middle one walks in and opens the fridge.

“I am a businessman,” I say.

“No milk?” the middle one says.

I sigh heavily, and then put on my coat and march down to the shops. It’s dark by the time I return with the milk. I find a slim package, addressed to me, sitting on the mat.

“Couldn’t any of you be bothered to answer the front door?” I say, waving the package.

“I didn’t hear anything,” the youngest says. “Did you hear anything?”

“Nope,” the oldest one says.

“Me, neither,” the middle one says, lifting the milk from my grasp.

“Don’t sport with me,” I say, ripping open the package. Inside the envelope is a felt pouch with a snap clasp and writing on one side, black against matte grey.

“What’s that?” the youngest one says.

“What does it say?” I ask, holding the pouch up to his nose. He squints and retracts his chin.

“Beast Your Goals,” he says.

“Correct,” I say.

“What does that even mean?” the oldest one says.

“It means this,” I say, sliding the contents of the pouch on to the kitchen table. There is a short silence.

“A skipping rope,” the middle one says.

“The most expensive speed rope you can buy,” I say. “The Elite.”

“How much is the most expensive skipping rope?” the oldest says.

“Who cares?” I say. “I’m worth it.”

Although the real answer is: not that much. The rope comes with an Allen key built in to each handle and complicated instructions for adjusting the length.

“It is kind of cool,” the middle one says. “For a skipping rope.”

“Stand back,” I say, unfurling the rope. “My goals aren’t going to beast themselves.”

“Do you even know how to do this?” the youngest says.

“I certainly do,” I say. “It’s one of my things.”

I find a spot at the far end of the kitchen, under the skylight, which affords just enough clearance to swing the rope. I take four or five gentle jumps and then speed up.

“Not bad,” the oldest one says.

“I can go way faster when I’m in practice,” I say. I do not add what I am thinking, which is: this hurts. My wife walks in.

“What is your father doing?” she says.

“He’s beasting his goals,” the oldest says.

“Do you want to see me cross over?” I shout above the whipsaw buzz of the rope.

“No, thanks,” the youngest says.

I do it anyway, alternating crossed arms between each jump. On the third revolution, the rope clips the youngest one’s outstretched toe.

“Ow!” he screams.

“Feel the quality?” I say, stopping to catch my breath.

“Would he not like to beast his goals outside?” my wife says.

“Outside?” I say. “With a rope like this? Are you crazy?”