WHEN you get to my age – 54 next week – and having endured the intense stress and high blood-pressure of bringing up four children, keeping fit becomes a higher priority.

My wife, therefore, bought me one of those wristbands that monitor how many steps you take, and computes your sleep patterns. It’s called a “Jawbone UP2 Fitness Tracker” and it quickly became an obsession.

Synched to my phone, it shows how many hours of deep sleep I have each night (not many), how many hours of light sleep (a few) and how many hours of being awake (lots). It doesn’t show how many times I get up to use the loo or how loudly my wife is snoring, so it has its limitations.

I’ve set a target of 10,000 steps a day, which is fine when I get time to go to the gym or play tennis, but challenging when I’m stuck at work. I find myself embarking on pointless walks round the office and using the downstairs toilet, even though there’s one right next door.

Sadly, the Jawbone UP2 also comes with a design fault. The clasp is useless – so much so that the wristband frequently drops off in the middle of a tennis rally, during a treadmill session or even one of my toilet treks.

This fault was highlighted by my wife when she was invited to send some feedback on the product, and a quick Google search showed that loads of other customers have had the same unsatisfactory experience.

Finally, my £40 wristband fell off without me noticing and is now lost, so my wife phoned Currys, where she bought it.

“Oh, that shouldn’t happen,” said the receptionist when my wife explained that the wristband had dropped off. “I’ll put you through to customer services to sort out a refund.” So far, so good.

David at customer services answered the transferred call and my wife explained again that the Jawbone tracker had a loose clasp - a clear design fault – and was lost.

David apologised and immediately suggested a course of action: “We’ll send someone out to pick it up and arrange a refund,” he declared.

“But it’s lost,” repeated my wife.

“Well, if you can locate it, we’ll give you a refund,” David persisted.

“But if I could locate it, it wouldn’t be lost,” reasoned my wife.

David, who must have been on a recent training course in intransigence, wasn’t giving up easily: “Well, we’d need you to find it in order to give you the refund.”

By this point, my wife’s temper was starting to fray and her voice acquired that unnerving tone it gets with me when I’m about to be sent to the doghouse: “David…I’m not sure you understand the meaning of the word ‘lost’, do you?” she said.

Without buying a sniffer dog or employing the local search and rescue team, we were always going to end in stalemate. David will arrange a refund if we can locate the wristband but we can’t - because it’s, you know, lost.

But all isn’t lost. My wife is now pursuing her compensation claim with the consumer ombudsman.

In the meantime, I’ve been jogging all over the North-East with my eyes scouring the ground in the vain hoping of locating my lost wristband for David.

I’m sure I’ve clocked up many thousands of steps but I have no way of knowing – because my fitness tracker is LOST!

THE THINGS MUMS SAY

Every Sunday, I take my lovely mum her Sunday lunch and we watch football together.

When I arrived at her house last week, she greeted me with some shock news: “Have you heard the Salford score? They’re winning 14-0.”

I had to explain that they were playing rugby.

THE THINGS KIDS SAY

THANKS to Maud Holdstock, of Scotton, North Yorkshire, who wrote to tell me about her five-year-old grandson starting school.

“Do you say ‘Our Father’ at assembly?” she asked.

“No, we say Amen,” came the reply.

THANKS also to Sylvia Taylor, of Darlington, for writing to tell me about her grandson Ethan, seven, who asked: “Grandma, when you’re very old, will you live in a big house with all your friends?”

MUM Helen Russell, of Darlington, was telling me about her daughters Molly, aged 3, and her little sister Alice getting their feet measured last week.
As Helen was telling husband Sean how their eldest daughter had grown into a size nine, Molly piped up: “Mammy, how old are my feet?”

COLLEAGUE Matt Westcott’s brother Daniel is trainee teaching assistant. While at school the other day, one young lad was missing. Fifteen minutes later he arrived, somewhat out of breath. “I’m sorry I’m late. My dad needed a poo,” he explained, loudly.

P.S. Thank you to those Dad At Large followers who’ve been in touch since the recent announcement that I am stepping down as editor of The Northern Echo. Just to make it clear – Dad At Large will be carrying on as normal. Here’s to the next 25 years!