Chrimbo

I’ve got to that age where I’ve started looking back at childhood Christmases. It wasn’t all tinsel and plenty. They seemed magical at the time but now I can see that they were tinged with a sort of sadness. Like that time the kids from down the road were looking through the window and laughing at the Action Man that Father Christmas had bought me. Well, it was an Action Man to me, I didn’t know any better. It was my sister’s cast-me down Cindy doll with its hair cut short and a bit of boot polish smudged across the top of its nose. It was in regimental dress uniform, though, so it was special. Some dress uniforms include the kilts in the regimental tartan. This one included a pink PVC mini-skirt. Well, I wasn’t to know, I mean, what do you know when you’re a littlie? 

David Purbright, he had a proper Action Man. With Eagle Eyes. There was this little stick in the back of his head — the Action Man, not David Purbright — and if you waggled it to the left his eyes shifted to the right; waggle the stick to the right and the eyes shift to the left. And if you waggled it to and fro the eyes shot from one side to the other until they got stuck and he had to bash its head on the edge of the kerb to get them moving again. Kids from five streets away would cluster round and watch as David Purbright made Action Man’s eyes waggle to and fro. “Do it again, David! Brilliant!” 

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