Peer into the toybox of my childhood and imagination. Open the lid of this imaginary container and you instantly realize that my dolls led a traumatic life. My best friend George-Next-Door reluctantly played ‘Mums and Dads’ and treated my dollies violently. We both enjoyed giving the ‘real hair’ doll a haircut in the hope that it would grow back curly. It was lucky I was not overly fond of dolls so was not too concerned that tugs-of-war would detach heads and limbs even though it meant trouble and a smack from my mother. I took revenge on George, when, as a fiercely competitive and excellent player of marbles, I won several of his best Dinky cars. Then his mother discovered his diminishing car collection, stopped our games, and lectured us on the evils of gambling. Together George and I would play dress ups, race cars, smash down towers of blocks, demolish wind-up toys to see how they worked and decapitate dolls while playing Cowboys and Indians. We both desperately wanted to Ride the Range on a real pony, but this was not to be, for how could we be trusted with a living animal when we treated our toys so savagely? I was sad when George moved away when I was six. My mother was glad to see him go, but I never found another friend who was quite so delightfully destructive. I wonder where he is now.