I think I am regressing as I get older.
First, it was getting back into sewing in a big way, which I originally became obsessed with when just a mere slip of a thing, but then neglected when boys, alcohol and bands became more interesting.
Then, I found a photo of me aged about 8 and noticed with shock that my hair is currently remarkably similar in style. My hair has somehow travelled back in time, quite of its own accord, although it is not these days quite as lush and blonde as my childhood crowning glory, obviously.
I now seem to be feeling the stirrings of another childhood obsession: the dolls’ house.
When we were children, my sister and I shared a tiny box bedroom. We did not have a proper dolls’ house – not for lack of wanting one, I hasten to add. This spurred us to create fabulous and intricately furnished miniature apartments located in suitcases, amongst Dad’s bookshelves and within the top cupboard of our built-in wardrobe (the penthouse apartment).
Our Pippa dolls lived a glamorous imaginary lifestyle of shopping and bitching. They were all millionairesses aged 16, which was the most hopelessly glamorous age to be, before you ended up past it at 20.
My local charity shop has three dolls’ houses for sale at the most reasonable price of £15 apiece. I have eyed them covetously, particularly the two 1960s ones, since before Christmas.
I went in with my 8-year-old lad today and prodded and stroked said houses. I told him I wished I had a girl-child as well, so that I had an excuse to buy one. He sensibly responded “why don’t you buy one anyway mummy?”
I think I might have to pop back tomorrow. Perhaps I could wall mount one and pretend it’s a house-shaped display shelf.
I think I am well on my way to my second childhood.
Pippa dolls photo courtesy of http://notwavingbutironing.wordpress.com
