We had some really good news during the week and we’re celebrating with a city break to London to see a very good friend and the much discussed production of Equus. I’ve been dithering about it for a while - I read the play waaaaaay back as an undergraduate, but I’ve never seen it. I’d have been long before now but for the uneasy feeling of “But it’s Harry Potter. Noooooooooo!”. However, a librarian friend of ours has been reassuring me that I’m worrying over nothing as Dan Radcliffe can actually pull off the role and Richard Griffiths is not to be missed. So, hubby and I are booked, with a couple of decent seats in the stalls. More on that in a couple of weeks. I’m quite excited about it now!

On my internet travels I came across this article about a girl who had been taken to American Girl’s doll hair salon, but they then refused to do her dolls hair because it wasn’t a “real” doll - i.e. one bought from them. The thing that appalled me about the whole thing is first off the little girl had saved up her own money for the doll she had and obviously loved it to bits, but secondly, she was completely humiliated and made to feel bad by the whole experience.

I’m sorry, but that’s not what childhood is all about. The shop may have its policies and be concerned about damaging other brand types, but there are ways to handle these things without spoiling the magic of a special toy for a little girl. A bit of ribbon and a bit of fuss would have done the trick without any trouble at all. The company will have dealt with this issue before - how can they not? - so to absolutely devastate a child is that way is bang out of order. How will she be left feeling about her favourite toy now? The magical edge has gone, and nothing and no one can put it back. People can be so heartless, thinking themselves so much better than others, and it’s just plain wrong. It’s never down to having money - it’s all about the person you are and what you do with the opportunities with the people you’re given.

As a kid, my first much loved doll was called Vanessa - that being the most glamorous name I’d ever heard! I loved her to bits and she even came on holiday with us, with her very own doll-sized suitcase. I can remember being absolutely traumatised when they searched it in the airport once because I’d spent ages ironing her clothes with my toy iron. (Ahhhh - those were the days! Now it’s more a case of ‘Iron? What’s one of those then?’ ) I’d have been absolutely gutted if anyone had treated her (and me) like that. Not that anyone would have ever dreamt of it back then.

Stories like that make me utterly convinced that some people have lost the plot entirely.