My Toy Gun.

I can still remember the exact weight of my toy gun, the way it fitted snugly into the palm of my hand. Actually, I can remember everything about it. The way the hammer pulled back and snapped to. The way you pulled out the pin to release the quick loader and then span it and snapped it shut. It was so light, just a few pieces of black plastic held together with glue and a couple of screws. It was nothing like the real guns I've held. Those were solid and heavy and murderous. In my mind, it was stored in the same compartment of pleasure as all my favourite sweets, synonymous with chocolate and coloured foil and cola bottles. When I held it, I was the Green Berets and Blackbeard and Murdoch from The A-Team all rolled into one. I would sit and wait in the fir tree for hours, keeping watch over the garden, protecting my parents from the nameless yet awful peril lurking just over the horizon. The funny thing is, I don't think there was any fantasy of violence associated with the gun. I didn't want to hurt anyone with it. I just wanted to be a goodie till bedtime.