At Least You Turned Out Normal

Recon Chest Rig, Black 
Beret, black
Operations Webbing Belt, Black
G3 Combat Trousers with Knee Pads, black
CHIMERA COMBAT JACKET, BLACK
LOWA Z8N GTX tactical boots, black

Hanging by two fingers from the steel grid, one foot toe-smearing the razor thin metal edge, he prepares his final move. A fully committed dyno. Beyond the vertical. No second chance. Sten Mark II submachine gun over the shoulder, holstered .45 Colt pistol and his trusted dagger and scabbard. British issue. Black as a panther in the velvet night.

Arctic warfare. Military crest position, at the ready, all white, at one with the snow and ice. Left knee articulated to 67 degrees. SAKO TRG 42, a Finnish long-range sniper rifle, manually-operated, bolt-action weapon chambered for .300 Winchester Magnum cartridge. Effective range of 1100 meters. Still and vigilant as a snow leopard before the kill.

Rank - lieutenant. Service Number 5206714T. 
Speciality - intelligence, surveillance, marksman. 
Mission - to distress and pin down the enemy, eliminate hostiles one by one. 
Name: Action Man.

Action Man. I never got one for Christmas. Never ever. Every year in the days before Christmas I sneaked into my folks’ bedroom, opened the double wardrobe and rummaged around under the blankets at the bottom to see what was coming up. NO action man. And yet, hanging on to a sliver of hope on Christmas morning, round the tree, I looked at the wrapped boxes, praying for the tall oblong shape of the cardboard and plastic container. But no. Not for me. Dolls are not for boys said she. And that was that. What Mums don’t understand is that Action Man isn’t a doll. You don’t play with him. You don’t stick pins in him. He’s not scary. He doesn’t bawl and greet like Tiny Tears or pee itself like Betsy Wetsy. He doesn’t have a string at the back like Thumbelina that makes him wiggle around and cry when you pull it. You don’t comb his hair like Cindy or Tressie or buy him a poncy boyfriend called Ken like you do with Barbie. Action man’s mission is not to teach boys how to be good husbands or fathers. 

And by the way if any boy in my day ever had two Action Men ‘eyebrows would be raised’ and ‘words had’.

You simply don’t play with Action man. You set him up and look at him. You imagine stuff in your head. You behold him in the frozen moment of a great military action, a covert mission.

Then in my 30s my mother’s guilt got the better of her and she bought me one. One Christmas she handed over a wrapped box and there he was inside. The real thing with a selection of gear. Multiple missions! And so he hung for months off the rack in my music teaching studio, suspended over the synths and drum machines. Looking as cool as you like. When kids came for lessons they spotted him straight away and reached out to grab him. But nobody touches Action Man. Except me. He’s on a mission and I don’t want some ratty little bairn twisting him out of shape, especially Sophie whose Dad had the look of a ’16” googly eyes vintage doll’. He would drop her off then couldn’t get away quick enough because he had some ‘business’ to attend to and when he came back he looked like ‘scary dirty doll with red eyes’ because he’d obviously been shagging his mistress. 

Later Mum told me tearfully of her remorse. All those years denying me an Action Man. She couldn’t forgive herself. She wanted to make up for it. Of course I forgave her. It was simply a generational thing. But then, without blinking, she added ‘it’s ok though, at least you turned out normal’