A genocide of the Polly Pockets
The kids have gone away for a night. My wife instantly took advantage: she started chucking their toys.
First, she went like an Assassin for the Art Drawer. Into the Black Bag of Death, she stuffed the paint-it-yourself teapot. She laid waste to the set for making charm bracelets, out of safety-pins and plastic beads. Then she began a Pogrom against the Polly Pockets. It was a hideous discriminatory policy: she took out any Pollys missing limbs. Then she trashed their plastic Poodle Parlour.
“My mum bought that Poodle parlour!” I protested. “But it’s me,” she said, “who picks up the plastic brushes.” “Where are the Pollys supposed to groom their Poodles now?” I said. “The dump,” she replied. “The sooner they arrive, the quicker they can melt.”
She reached for a torn book from the Oxford Learn Reading series. “Ugh!” She said. “I’ve read hundreds of these. I still don’t know which one’s Biff or which one’s Kipper.” “Give me that,” I said, and I ripped it before she could.
I kneeled before their book shelf like a great evil ogre. “Danny the Champion of the World,” I said. “Don’t worry. You’re staying. Harry Potter, relax. Merlin the Magic Kitten, I’m afraid it’s bad news.”
We threw away old homework. We binned a badly painted plaster cast unicorn that was squashed behind the Annuals. By now their room was much sprucer, and the toys-that-had-made-it were looking enticing. The surviving bears looked proud on their pillow. Monopoly and Cluedo called enticingly from the shelves. “The room looks refreshed,” she declared.
“If the kids were here,” I said, “they would kill us.” “Yup,” she said. “But they’re not. So let’s cull some Rainbow Fairies.” “Lauren the Puppy Fairy hasn’t been read,” I said. “She doesn’t deserve to die.” “She deserves to go in the canal,” she said, “in a sack filled with concrete.”
I laughed. I looked at my wife. I thought she was getting weird, but I found it attractive she was being funny. “What shall we do now?” she said. “”Go upstairs?” I replied. “Good idea,” she said. “I could do some damage to your sock drawer.” “Be my guest,” I said. And I followed her upstairs.
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