bitful

I recently acquired my thirtieth Barbie doll. One pound ninety-nine pence from Cancer Research UK. She has seen better days, and I like to think she has been loved a lot.

She is black, and I put her in one of my Barbie shoe boxes with her two gorgeous sisters I already owned, then showed them proudly to Dr B. and said 'look, now I can do Mis-Teeq: So-so-so-scandalous', and then took the new one out and made her dance, bent her knees that made that familiar click sound, looked up at Dr B. who had an expression of utter horror on his face and shouted 'Stop it, you'll break her legs, that's horrible!'

He had no idea Barbie dolls could bend their knees. Bless his little butch rugby socks. I guess he won't be able to understand what I felt last night when I popped into Woolworths and saw for the first time the much-anticipated new Cali Barbie (up-to-date wardrobe, new friends, and a new and very deep St. Tropez-orangey tan).

My mind flew back thirty years to my very first one, a Malibu Barbie with an equally deep all-over bronze colour, natural and carcinogenic in a 70's way. After a couple of years of nagging, it was finally secretly given to me by my mother, who instructed me only to play with it in my room. After I went to bed. With the door closed. In the dark. And possibly blindfolded.

The doll and the extensive wardrobe I'd sewn for her throughout the following decade mysteriously disappeared soon after I left home at 17 - and this practical psychology case-book scenario made many a therapist's day throughout the next twenty years.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 16th, 2004 at 12:50 pm and is filed under uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.