With the family birthdays finally parked up until next spring and Christmas peering, menacingly, around the corner, I regularly stand agog at the mountain of toys belonging to my 3G. How on earth did this happen? Do they actually play with any of these toys anymore? Will they really miss any if I take half to the local charity shop? And if I hide the Argos catalogue would they be able to ask for anything at all this Christmas?
They don't need anything else.
They have food and shelter and free education, That should be enough right?
I think this because I didn't have a huge amount of toys. It's okay, pop your violin away, there are no regrets here. I had stuff; teddies, board games, a bike, my recorder, a piano and I think I managed to wangle a tamagotchi out of my parents at some point. But as most of you reading this will recognise...we were playing outside. So my feet were my toys - hah - I'm saving that one when the Christmas lists start being written next month.
The thing I do remember about my toys was how terribly afraid I was of seeing the collected button eyes peering out from furry faces that were cute and cuddly in the day but by night...
I had a huge, built in wardrobe in my bedroom that I shared with my much younger sister and every night the sliding doors would have to be firmly shut with the brood of bears obviously 'sleeping' behind. Especially the biggest one. A broad brown bear with the texture of Playschool's Big Ted but the expression of Hanbel the miserable doll.
I don't know who bought and burdened me with that bear. I imagine I should have have been grateful. But I was absolutely convinced that when I went to sleep the bears and ragdolls, lead by Beariarty would come alive, chattering about my Teddy Mother qualities, and possibly, very possibly, plotting.
So, despite incurring
This post is in response to a #post40bloggers #writingprompt no101:Childhood Toys
