And once, at a viewing of Toy Story 3 in the rather ambitiously named Cineworld, I sobbed at the sad inevitability of children growing-up and discarding their toys. Tears streamed down my face as I remembered the day, slightly too late in my adolescence, when I too threw away all my dolls. The eight-year-old tough boy next to me rubbed his eyes disparagingly, whispered profanities and questioned my sexuality.
On leaving the cinema, I spotted a tiny Buzz Lightyear collapsed in mock abandon on the pavement. He was desperately trying to assume the position of the inanimate as a Staffordshire Bull Terrier licked him.
I do not remember many of my toys but will never forget the Evel Knievel wind-up rocket car that just could not do what it said in the adverts. I loved that thing...
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