Robot update

All your toys are belong to us. 

The eagle has landed.

Here he is, flanked by the Iron Man (Ana's birthday present).

Regular readers of the Chaos Chronicles (Hello Mom!) will recall that this little guy was designed by Papa and Ana online, and printed by the fine humanitarian geniuses at My Robot Nation.

I suggest you run over there right now and design your own robot. Even, er especially if you are a grown-up.

For those kids six and over, there is another exciting way to get stuck into robot world. Katy Lindemann, herself a robot expert, has introduced me to MakieLab, where Alice Taylor and her team are busily creating "future-smashing, customisable 3D-printed, game enabled" toys.

And apparently they are looking for some extremely lucky young volunteers to try them out...

Even pack rats get the blues

I live in a homing beacon for crap toys. For the past three years an entire galaxy of 'cheap and nasties' (term courtesy of A&E Mum) has found the magnetic draw of my house irresistible. My research indicates that this is due to my home's geographical location on the conversion point of two ancient polymer ley lines—it is essentially a semi-detached plastic henge.

For the first three years I didn't mind. I became a bit of a toy-pagan myself. My Mama Stockholm Syndrome reasserted itself and I began identifying with the junk, even giving the most hateful bits names: Creepy Dog, Molly Dolly, etc. But the clutter that alighted innocently at first began to flock in an increasingly Hitchcock-esque manner. Before long there was something menacing and undeniably stickerman about.

The Clutterati. 

Things went bump in the night—against the arch of my foot any time I was so foolish as to set foot out of bed. By day I was mad-dogged by their fearsome leader. Sometimes I could have sworn that he changed location without any human moving him.

One morning I had a premonition of a mighty judgement coming: a vision of myself turned into a plastic cat lady, buried under shape sorters and poorly-drawn fake plastic kitchen food. Clearly something had to be done. But for the life of me, I couldn't think of what.

Then, while stumbling over toys one day, I landed upon an insightful documentary on this very subject called 'Toy Story 3'. Inspired, I commenced operation 'Crap Toy Desertion'. Now the teeming plastic masses are in bin bags in the garage, bound for the charity shop (which is where most of them came from in the first place).

Riding off into the fake sunset. 

I can once again walk across my own sitting room without risking foot injury. All that remains is to hang garlic above the doors to prevent a recurring infestation.

I feel unburdened, weightless, peaceful, as I sit here. The first toy was the hardest to toss. But each one became easier, more rewarding, until I was chucking them into bin bags more rapidly than Sylvester McMonkey McBean throws Sneeches into his Star-On machine.

Hang up your plastic saddles. 

I had a joyous epiphany: having children doesn't have to mean a houseful of crap. Funniest thing about possessions: they grow to possess you, if you don't show them the door first.

Nosey folks

During a recent lineup of the usual suspects, I noticed that noses feature quite prominently in this house.

In the toy trough. 

Thanks to the Jenny Matlock of Alphabe-Thursday for the assignment.

11: Baby, where Christmas comes from

Day 11 in Advent photos, and continuing on that most sentimental of road trips to the magical German town where Christmas comes from.

First Santa I see tonight.  

Seiffen is a little town in the Ore Mountains of Saxony near the Czech border. The residents of Seiffen produce the most incredible wooden Christmas ornaments imaginable. I don't know what kind of juicy blackmail dirt Santa Claus has on these guys, but my research indicates that his toy sweatshop isn't in the North Pole as previously claimed, but actually here in Seiffen.

A star is made. 

Little wooden wonders from Seiffen and the surrounding region are exported worldwide. In fact, one of my favourite childhood Christmas ornaments was from here: a beautiful wooden angel, who perched joyfully atop the tree every year, blowing a trumpet towards the sky. Of course it's only with hindsight that I recognise the distinctive style. Back in my youthful Decembers, I'd never been to Germany or heard of Seiffen. I didn't know that my little wooden angel was actually born in the epicentre of Christmas.

I wish I might have the toys I wish for tonight. 

Light in darkest December has curative powers, thus the seasonal emphasis on candles, stars, fairy lights, luminarias (more to follow shortly) and suchlike. Sieffen at night (above) is an abundance of light—much like a lit Christmas tree in pure dark, and almost as beautiful as the Milky Way.

4: NHS bear hug

Day 4 in Advent.

Can't bear paracetamol. 

I can unreservedly recommend my local hospital for minor kid emergencies. For instance, if your child slips into stealth-mode and commandeers a full bottle of Calpol, then triumphantly returns it to you emptied, the nice A&E people will let you in out of the cold with a smile. They won't even criticise your shoddy baby surveillance skills and rubbish cap-securing ability. Your snowflake might then flail about wrathfully, shouting Babish obscenities like something out of 'The Exorcist' while the nurse tries to draw blood to ascertain paracetamol levels. Said nurse will remain calm, simultaneously offering a cute teddy to your teeth-gnashing minion, and comforting words to a blubbering you. The blood test might confirm that, while your devil in disguise created a Calpol Jackson Pollock on the carpet, she actually ingested nil. The nurse will convey this news tactfully, and will probably not even point and laugh at you for all the flapping about.

Angel in disguise

People don't always have nice things to say about the NHS. And I know some hospitals are better than others. But all I have to say to my local is: thank you; you are awesome.