First love i

My pony was called Blossom. She had melting eyes, and a silky mane. She had a long tail that she swished about … when I wasn’t busy plaiting it for her (a minor obsession of mine, it has to be said). She was my first pony, and even though she got old and was superseded by others with flashier names and a better jumping style, she still occupies a special place in my heart. Even though we sold her for twenty pence at a car boot sale.

Blossom had a lilac coat, and a design of flowers printed on both sides of her rump. She was, of course my little pony. And if you don’t know what that means, I suggest that you stop reading this entry, as it will in all probability totally mystify you.

I was five years old in 1983, and ‘My little pony’ was not just a range of toys. It was an obsession, and a way of life, an aspirational dream of fake-strawberry scented plastic, and the glue that cemented together female friendships, all rolled into one. My little ponies galloped up to my infant school and took over the playground at one million miles per hour. There was scarcely a small girl left un-scathed. We were breathless under their ruthless attack. We sang the jingle, (ignoring the boys who sang ‘my little pony, skinny and bony’. Such sacrilege!), we lived the dream. We ached to own one.

My mother was, I think, initially a little scathing about them. I think she hoped we would prefer improving books and abacuses to over-priced pieces of plastic. So she told my sister and I to save up for them.

We saved. I scoured the back of the sofa for unwanted pennies. I tipped out my money box daily, willing the totals to add up to more. I think that one pony cost around four pounds. My pocket money was twenty five pence per week. How could time go so slowly?! How could the world be so cruel?  I could have wept with frustration. (I probably did). I wanted to burst – how could I cope without a my little pony? It was all so unfair!

Mummy finally buckled under the strain after picking me up one day from the infants.
“How was your day, rumtumtugger?” she enquired as we pulled up in the drive, and my little face shone with excitement,
“It was amazing! Laura brought in her my little pony… and she let me hold it!”
Resistance was useless. “Right.” She said, perhaps a little wearily, “Get back in the car. We’re going into Markettown.”
We went to the local toyshop. By then, the collective fluttering of Eve and my excitement had increased to an almost hormonal throbbing. My little pony. My little pony.

In a near feverish state of excitement I ran around the toyshop: where were they? Where were they? Supposing they weren’t there? Supposing they’d sold out? Supposing they never got any more in ever?
And then, like an oasis, I turned a corner, and there was the display.
“Mummy!” I yelled (probably at the top of my voice, but I comfort myself that the shop-owners were probably used to it). “Guess what I’ve found?”
“What?”
“Them!”

There were six in the original line-up. Or perhaps four. I forget. What I do remember is that I chose Blossom. My sister chose bow-tie. Bow-tie was blue, with a pink mane and tail, and her head was turned to one side, and her face was dotted with freckles. ( A little sadly, my sister was convinced that these freckles were tears, and during our games would constantly manufacture situations for poor Bow-tie that would warrant such continuous sadness. But that would come later.)

For the moment, the boxes were borne triumphantly to the till like trophies, and on the way back from Markettown to our village, my sister and I sat in contented silence in the back of the car, brushing the sleek plastic locks of our ponies. Stroking their backs. Examining their feet. We were replete.
Only once was I disturbed by a sudden thought, “Mummy…. But we hadn’t saved up enough money for these ponies…?”
My mother didn’t take her eyes off the road, “I think the nice lady must have let us off having to pay the rest of the money.”
“Oh. Okay.”  (I find this exchange rather poignant now, and am at a loss to explain exactly why. Perhaps it is because I realise that we didn’t even go back into the house to pick up our money boxes. But does this explain why it makes the backs of my eyes prickle? Not quite…)
Both Eve and I became religious pony collectors. I remember that Eve was given Cherries Jubilee – who had curly hair! We saved up for bath ponies, who stood proudly in their own seashells. We then saved for baby bath ponies, who had little rubber rings of almost unbearable cuteness … but, in a very unsatisfying manner, would never stay upright when floating in the bath, but would always fall over in the water.

    ….continued….