It’s a funny old thing ‘love’. I’ve spent hours, weeks, months of my life researching what it is about a brand that encourages people to form that deepest of emotional attachments and yet I’ve never experienced it myself. Of course there have been a few mild flirtations: Levi 501s, ‘vintage’ as they’d be called nowadays, hunted down at American Classics in Endell Street; Freelance Chelsea boots, just the right curve of the toe, just the right level of shine; and more mundanely, Mentadent P, dentist recommended and a firm fixture in my bathroom cabinet for many a year. I’ve moved on from all of them now of course and they’re all remembered with a certain fondness. Last Friday, however, I fell in love.
It started off as a difficult old day as most days have in the last couple of weeks. My son has just started ‘big’ school and it’s been proving a bit of an adjustment from his cosy little nursery where he, as one of the eldest, had been reigning supreme in his final few months. Now finding himself back at the bottom of the pile I was leaving morning drop off to screams of ‘Mummy, please don’t leave me here, I hate this school’ - not quite the start either of us had hoped for.
Talking things through at the end of each day I got to hear the good, the bad and thankfully, nothing too ugly. The term ‘Go Gos’ kept rearing its head. At first I thought little of it but day by day I learnt that these were inch high plastic, collectible toys. I was informed by my son that “all the boys at school have lots and I don’t have any”. Apparently, they are squirreled away in trouser pockets, only to be half revealed at playtime away from the prying eyes of the teacher. At that point my indifference turned to anger: how dare the school allow toys to be used as social currency! How inconceivable that I would be subject to such secondary peer pressure when we’d only just set foot inside the school door!
Fast forward to last Friday and my son running off to his bedroom to find a toy to put in his pocket and pretend it was a Go Go. The horror that my little boy might suffer at the hands of more knowing children when he revealed his makeshift Go Go in the school playground made my heart break. I tried everything I could to guard against it but in the end I had to accept that this might be one of those lessons only learned the hard way. All morning I was on tenterhooks. To try and take my mind of it I ventured onto the internet. Much to my surprise I found myself entering ‘Go Gos’. I discovered that they could be purchased at good old Argos. I walked to the nearest one a mile away only to be smirked at by the teller who told me they sell out as soon as they come in. She looked online to find that there was one packet left in the nearest store just under two miles in the other direction. I looked outside. It was pouring with rain. My baby son was asleep in his pushchair. I thought of my other little boy battling it out each day in his new school environment. I pulled on my hood and set off.
Thirty-five minutes later and soaking wet the Go gos were mine. I could see how a little boy might covet them: small, brightly coloured, characterful, each with its own name and number. The only challenge now was to get back before the school bell. Hood back on, head down and fighting against the increasing rainfall I hurried back. The school pick up was the usual flurry of coats, scarves, lunchboxes and books. I told my little boy that I had a surprise for him. Once out of the school gate I made him close his eyes and hold out his hands. Into them I placed one pack of three Go gos – less than 30p a pop. He opened his eyes. They revealed nothing for a moment while he took in the gift, then a wide eyed delight, brighter and more genuine than anything prompted by any gift Father Christmas or anyone else had ever given him up to that point in his short life. He threw his arms around my neck and told me he would never forget this - EVER.
A six mile round trip in the pouring rain – worth every step. And Go Gos Crazy bones – heart-beating, butterfly inducing, firework cracking love.
Nuala