Today’s post is another one I found via social media. The account deals exclusively with vintage toys from about 1980 onwards. For context, Monfeld sprung up in 1989. In the user’s profile photo they wear an action figure themed baseball cap and t-shirt. That should give you an idea of their content. Nevertheless, this is a fascinating story. But I worry about the writer a great deal.
I had thought about going back to Monfeld shopping centre at least once a week for twenty years.
The place used to bustle with so many people you had to dance about to avoid getting stood on. Dad and I often visited the toy shop, especially after Mum left. It was a good way to address the balance.
I could have pushed him for bigger items. But what I wanted most were the action figures. Classic nineties trash was my favourite, and my favourite of all were The Street Jawz. A gang of anthropomorphic sharks with bulging muscles, all clutching weapons like samurai swords or nail studded two by fours. Their packaging were neon green toxic waste barrels. How awesome.
My collection got to eight of the possible ten available. This took six months of cajoling. But by that point, the franchise was struggling. The cartoon had not blossomed, and the viewing figures dwindled. On our next trip to the toy shop, the Street Jawz were all on discount.
And that was the key. The sharks were the same price for two as it had been for one a few weeks before. Yet still my Dad wouldn't let me have both to complete the set. He said it was greedy.
I admit I had a meltdown. The look on the cashier's face still makes me wince. All my outburst did was seal the deal.
By the next week they were gone.
So this is why I had to go back.
The toy shop is bang in the middle of the shopping centre, on the ground floor. One of the centrepieces of the building. A rainbow arch had once run around the doorframe, and piles of toys had filled all four display windows. A chipped U-shaped skeleton is all that remained. My feet made footprints in the dirt outside.
But even though the door creaked, it still opened. Most of the shelves were bare landscapes of MDF. A smattering of transparent plastic shells and sagging cardboard littered the floor. Faded animal wall stickers formed broken tableaus around me. A few soft toys faced the wall in the corner, staring without a playroom for eternity.
But right at the back, on a neon green display table, was a whole box of the sharks. Their toxic waste barrels shone like Christmas trees, waiting to be chosen.
I rushed over, and picked up each barrel in turn. I found my prizes at number four and six. Tarbazoid with his dustbin lid shield. Molop with his cracked baseball bat. The excitement was religious. I now understand those who have met God.
Both barrels vanished into my rucksack. You would have to consider that a purchase. I am sure that was the trigger. My other hand still rested on the table, and this is when the teeth sank in, clamping down before I had a chance to react.
The next ten minutes were confusing. But even in a run down area, if you staggering down the street and pouring blood, someone is bound to call an ambulance eventually.
Now all ten figures guard my room from a glass cabinet, I understand this was a fair trade. Who cares about my fingers when the missing part inside me has returned.
