Dinky was dope
As subjective as it may be, I think that the selection of toys that I grew up with might be better than that of my own children. How unfair is that?
We both played with Lego, but my kids never learned the joy of going to a friend’s house to play Dinky toys. And it’s too late to make up for it; may they learn to forgive me for my lapse. You see, I was lucky enough to be neighbours with a large family of boys, and their front doorstep was a marvel. Not exactly a sandpit; more of a dirt pile, but there were boxes of miniature cars, trucks, road building equipment, etc. And we were filled with dreams of greater worlds.
When there were extra coins available, we made the pilgrimage downtown to the Dinky dealer. Glass display cases filled with coloured jewels, both small and large. None could afford the larger ones, but with the help of free catalogues and a keen sense of potential play value, we could turn a dollar into so much more.
I recently checked eBay; if we knew then what we know now, we’d be rich (although no happier). It didn’t matter if our Matchbox Lesney replicas (the other marketing name) got grungy from too many virtual miles in the dirt. Added to the charm, actually. The tiny lights tended to scrub away, but a good grader remained a good grader. Great grader, even; no fear of paint scratches.
If asked about the really good stuff, just think of the James Bond cars, with hidden gunports and an ejector seat. That was about as good as it got. And my kids will never know. Sigh.
