For two days, the large bag of double-amputee dolls sat in my car, their sightless eyes boring holes into me as I drove about wondering, not for the first time, if my husband was entirely sane.
“It’s better if you take them to the tip,” he’d said, gleefully making me an accomplice.
Like why couldn’t we just use the bin?
Imagine being pulled over for a random breath test and you have 30 or 40 small passengers aboard who are quite literally legless.
And why worry about depositing several dozen dolls, all missing lower limbs, in curb-side rubbish?
The really creepy bit was him collecting them from various op shops, garage sales and charity stores.
If you have ever seen a 1.9-metre bearded man examining used dolls or, more precisely, scrutinising their feet and legs, you’ll know what I mean.
But we’ve been together long enough that I know not to ask.
I knew also that his younger brother’s birthday was coming up and sensed this was somehow connected.
It was, however, a little disconcerting when I went out to the shed and found him dismembering with a power tool a Ninja turtle, some male action figures and several Barbies.
And I actually chewed a small chunk out of my own cheek when he started sticking the feet of these unfortunates on to one of those hard hats they wear on construction sites.
But when, after several days’ work, he trotted from the shed to the house wearing the yellow helmet adorned with legs like a punk rock echidna, I understood completely.
Happy birthday, Phil, we hope you like your footy hat.
