“Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.” Ford Prefect
Aside from the wisdom of Ford Prefect (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), there is a theory that time doesn’t exist, it’s just the way your memory makes sense of physical reality. My memory is still scarred by the physical reality of 1965. I remember it particularly because it was the year I had become obsessed with having a Sindy doll. When my birthday in August came and went without Sindy making an appearance, I decided to take control of the situation. First I informed Mum of how many girls in my class (all of them) had a Sindy; then I practised writing letters to Santa asking for one, making sure I left the letters where I knew Mum would find them; finally – and this, I thought, was a stroke of genius on my part – I asked Aunty Phyl to help me address the envelope for my best letter and send it, knowing from past experience that Father Christmas and Aunty Phyl were clearly in cahoots. Christmas morning arrived and as I sat at the breakfast table surveying my mound of presents which were hidden under a blanket beneath the tree, only the corner of one gift was exposed. It was a piece of coloured cardboard with the word Sindy on it.
If you ever wonder when someone decides to spend their life making dolls, I can tell you it’s the Christmas morning when they find out that they have a Sindy colouring book instead of a Sindy doll. Not that I bear a grudge. No indeed, because not only have I spent the subsequent years making beautiful dolls (the one above is of my mum) but in a gesture of largesse, increasingly I find myself repairing dolls. Loved dolls. Dolls which their owners have a deep sentimental attachment to. Just like I would have had with Sindy. Anyway, let’s deal with the trauma and move on (as my therapist would say, yawning and checking her watch). Back in September Raggedy Andy was admitted to my Dolls’ Hospital. He needed extensive reconstructive surgery but the main problems were that half of his face was missing and one eye was dangling on a single thread.
Stage One was to tea dye some poplin to match his unusual complexion and collect fabric for a new outfit.
Stage Two involved inserting the tea dyed poplin over the exposed stuffing and stitching it into position around the hair line.
Stage Three was trickier. If I sewed Andy’s existing face to the new fabric he was going to end up like a toy version of Frankenstein because there is no such thing as invisible stitching. In the end I used a specialist textile glue which stabilised the old fabric and stopped any further fraying and then I inserted tiny threads as extra warp and weft.
Stage Four happened once the glue was set and the pins were removed. Andy was dressed in his new outfit and discharged home. As I said earlier, to someone who loves him and who has a sentimental attachment to him. Just like I would have had to Sindy if she had appeared back in 1965.
Epilogue – Christmas Morning 2021
These days there isn’t a mound of presents under a blanket on Christmas morning. No letters were written to Santa because Mum and Aunty Phyl aren’t around to make sure they’d be sent. I am Chief Organising Elf at Scarecrow Cottage & my duties include making sure that everyone else has a surprise something under the tree. This year however there was one parcel that I didn’t recognise. It was from the other scarecrow and the label simply said “Better Late Than Never”. I’m not sure anymore about time being an illusion because as I unwrapped the paper and took out the box inside, 56 years disappeared and it was 1965 again This time as it was meant to be.
