Die Toy Maker, Die.

I’m not a violent person, truly I’m not.

I don’t often fantasise about gouging out someone’s eyes with a rusty teaspoon and feeding them to a hoarde of hungry crocodiles.

I don’t often want to dunk someone repeatedly into a vat of honey, and then throw them  into a bee farm.

But, let me tell you, if you’re responsible for THIS:


Then I wish all of the above and more on you.

Oh yes, Buzz glows in the dark does he? Test that claim out, did you? I don’t think you did. Let’s just admit the truth. You just put it on the box just for a laugh. Sicko.

Buzz Lightyear glows in the dark about as much as I do. When I’m wearing black pyjamas and a balaclava*. In other words, Mr Toy-Maker, he DOES NOT GLOW IN THE DARK.  

So there I am, in the middle of a highly inappropriate but relatively pleasing dream about Chris Pine and Robert Pattinson (weird, but true), when I am woken up by the sound of wailing. It’s 3.15am, and my four-year-old child is sobbing inconsolably. Of course, I do what any Mother would do in that situation. I pull the duvet more tightly around me and yell: “Flea, are you okay?”

More sobbing.

Resigned to my fate, I stagger into her bedroom to find Flea sitting bolt upright in bed, crying so hard that the snot and tears are dripping off her chin like raindrops. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

Eventually, after wiping her face on my t-shirt a couple of times, she manages to point to the top of her toy box, and splutter out something along the lines of: “My Bu-u-u-u-u-u-zzz doesn’t glo-o-o-o-o-owww in the daa-a-a-ar-k Mumme-e-e-eeeeee….” 

At this point, it means nothing that Buzz is fully-articulated and interactive, with flashing lights and over 65 individual phrases, spoken in the real Buzz voice. No. All that matters is he doesn't sodding glow in the dark.

Flea was only consoled by me taking her into my bed and spending the next 20 minutes making up a story about Sam the Space Pirate and what happened the day he got shampoo in his eyes.

If you are responsible for this, well, I hope you die a death of a thousand cuts.  

[*I don't wear that regularly, or anything.]

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