Could my son fulfil my childhood dreams of a toy car?
© Provided by The Guardian Photograph: Popperfoto 'You're not bringing that into the house,' she said. 'Just hang on,' I replied, letting my wife take the pram as I got on my haunches. I was inspecting a motorised toy car that had been left out on the street. It was the kind your child can sit in as you operate it by remote control, like some sort of playboy millionaire, intent on ruining the day of all the lowly serfs you overtake at 0.05mph. 'It's beautiful,' I said, of the clearly broken ride-a-long car that was being offered up to any passing deal hound who had space in their heart for a taste of the high life.
© Photograph: Popperfoto 'I was getting the flush of endorphins I first experienced all those decades ago.' My wife was right to say it had seen better days. At 20 months old, our son wouldn't be that safe in it to begin with, even if it didn't have exposed wires, a wobbly seat and wonky headlamps. There was also the fact that a full night and day outside meant it had almost certainly been exposed to the damaging effects of rain and/or fox wee.
Not that I was dissuaded. Perhaps my wife was inured to its charms because she doesn't peruse the glossy pages of each year's Argos catalogue as if it was a holy document. If she had, she'd remember these cars cost £999 (down from an RRP of £1,299) when I was a boy. They were the kind of thing you saw on the Late Late Toy Show, or in movies about kids who'd won the lottery.
Some light Googling reveals that prices have gone down in the 30 years since I first circled it in the 1992 toy catalogue and showed it to my dad, prompting him to laugh in my face as if I'd just asked him to buy me a football stadium. I was getting the flush of endorphins I first experienced all those decades ago at the thought that my son could be that obnoxious Richie Rich I had always dreamed of being.
It's a hoary old trope that parents want their children to have those things they couldn't have themselves. Usually we lie and say that means education and self-confidence, etc, but I now realise I also meant a little motorised car you can ride around in like a fancy prince. Since my wife was still unmoved, I told her that my going back and picking it up off the street could make for a good column. She rolled her eyes as she walked off, which I took to be consent.
When I doubled back later that evening, I saw all the more sub-optimal things about taking a giant broken toy car in from the street. The exposed wires I would have no idea how to fix, the sheer improbability of us having anywhere to put it, the vague whiff of animal urine, and the inevitability of my claiming I'd mend it, only to realise I'd never intended to make it work – I simply wanted to make it mine.
Confronted with reality, the bloom had fallen off the rose. Some dreams, however beautiful, should be left to 30-year-old toy catalogues. And if they get sprayed with fox wee, the pages are laminated so you can just wipe it off.
Follow Séamas on Twitter @shockproofbeats
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