I note from the BBC news that efforts are underway this week to revive the Sindy doll, it having fallen by the wayside in the face of competition from the much more gregarious (American) Barbie.
Mike asked me if I had ever had a Sindy doll. I think I had both a Sindy and a Barbie. Not to mention a doll that talked, one that walked, and one that wet its nappy shortly after it was given water by mouth via a bottle. (I remember trying it on milk, but was then never able to quite remove the smell…)
Dolls and me never seemed to hit it off. In the days before my mother’s memory went off with the fairies, she would ruefully recount her attempts to develop my more maternal side. I was given a lot of dolls, both by her and my grandparents. And I had a dolls’ pram, a posh one, presumably with the intention that I would parade about with it as other little girls did.
What my mother has never forgotten is the day she left me playing in the garden with the pram and the dolls… and returning to find that the dolls had been unceremoniously dumped on the grass. The pram was now full of garden soil. It worked so much better as a wheelbarrow.
The rest, as they say, is history.