My Gift

grey polythene wrapped box

Tucked under the dining table for two weeks now, still concealed in its grey plastic packaging, my gift waiting be opened. I should at least check that I have received what I ordered, so I’m not disappointed; like those stories of kids waiting to open a Ps5 on Christmas Day only to unwrap boxed bricks. But the thick, clumsily taped polythene skin holds promise and suffocates the possibility of disappointment. It seals the magical lustre of an untold secret that once released, will diffuse into a thin whisper of nothingness.

I am more than familiar with the complicated relationship between expectation and reality. Addressing it is a routine part of the daily grind. Now I fear my own unreasonable expectation, and plan to open the package only when I’m resigned to a more realistic outlook. I tell myself one of the best things I recall of my childhood doesn’t have to be all that.

It had been near impossible to find, and once identified, disappointingly easy to obtain. Three years of Yuletide Google searches, by a proficient internet stalker (of course not on my CV), and nothing. This year I decided to change tact and described it in various ways, and lo and behold ten minutes later, it could be mine in a click. Struggling with the mixed emotions of others not valuing something I so coveted, I ultimately decided it was a good thing that my whimsical wish was unique. I was not in want of a rare and expensive collector's item that was not in my reach. It shouldn’t really matter that the world considered my childhood prized possession meh at best, and unmemorable at the worst.

It was the most sophisticated toy a child could imagine. Delicate and complicated, a real mechanical masterpiece. It was red. In those days red meant something. Red was important, red was quality. Red like phone booths and mailboxes, the cherished links to a distant loved one when text messages, and dick pics, weren’t a thing. Red like fire engines and the comfort in their existence. The kitsch plastic red of that other celebrated toy, the Etch A Sketch, that somehow better stood the test of time and to this day still allows confused kids of retro-inspired parents to draw all sorts of items containing straight lines only.

I recall it having sand in its weights, which I must have noted when it broke. How it broke I’m not sure, I just recollect the numbness and the realisation that it was over and the instant elevation in its splendour that can only be associated with a life short lived. I reminisce about the hypnotic oscillation of its arm as the pen swirled, and its weighted pendulums that swung rhythmically. This was soothing, perhaps like the beating of a resting heart, or a sleeping child’s effortless breaths. The assembly of awkward rods, joints, hooks operated in unison with a surprising lubricity of motion. The felt tip pen gently scratched glossy paper as it swirled and twirled, whirring in metronomical magnificence. Then there was the resultant image, an intricate collection of webbed spirals, beautifully entwined, mesmerising with parabolic pleasure. A lucid depiction of a child’s hazy daydream. At least that’s how I remember it.

The Harmonograph, Peter Pan toys, available on eBay for the price of a lipstick.

What was the last gift you bought yourself?