I’m surprised I never ended up in Madame Tussaud‘s Chamber of Horrors given the toys I had as a kid.

By the age of six, I’d become very adept at using a tomahawk.  Luckily, it was made of rubber and therefore the chances of me chopping people’s scalps off was remote.  

As if encouraging the art of decapitating wasn’t enough, my father once brought home a blowpipe.  A German client of his had sent it to him.  I scoured all my Christopher Isherwood, Goethe and Sven Hassel novels, but never found any mention of blowpipes. 

When I was given the gift, I had the sudden fear we’d be leaving the safety of our Balham flat and moving to New Guinea; my new-found prowess with a blowpipe ensuring we’d become self-sufficient the moment we got off the boat or plane from Croydon Airport. 

The blowpipe darts were, of course, rubber-tipped.  The worst I could do was take one of my parent‘s eyes out as they entered my bedroom brandishing my evening hot chocolate. 

As you get older, there’s a medical test where you have to demonstrate your ability to blow.  Little do these doctors know, I’d been trained by Pygmies from an early age with my blowpipe and, during the test, I imagine I’m trying to kill a mammoth.

It was a few years ago now.