At the risk of sounding melodramatic, all toy shops give me a cold sweat and none make me feel remotely nostalgic. Toys R Us takes me to Christmas Eve circa 1985, trying to find the last brunette doll for my younger sister, who was implacably opposed to dolls that were blond, even while she herself was. John Lewis, 2009, eyeball to eyeball with a foe for the last 50% marked-down Buzz Lightyear; she was the very devil, wild-eyed and determined, but I could have been looking in a mirror. Hamleys, Christmas Eve again, 2015, trying to fabricate new interests for my six-year-old daughter, because I was against gendered playthings and we already had all the Nerf guns it was possible to have.
I was anti-consumerist while consuming quite a lot, against plastic while simultaneously grossed out by other anti‑plastic parents, and didn’t want to raise spoilt little Fauntleroys yet at the same time hated saying “no”. It’s not easy holding on to that many contradictions or, if you prefer, being that dumb.
