Oh no. Furbies are back!
Child Two longed for one the first Christmas we were back in the UK. Naturally, in the throes of divorce/moving/constant arguing with TL, obscure Christmas list items were not top of my agenda. But Child Two’s heart was firmly set on one of these strange, alien-looking creatures. By the time I got myself together and battled my way to the toyshops, all the Furbies were gone. Except one.
I suppose I should have known. The only Furby left in the whole of Britain just had to have something wrong with it. But I was simply thrilled to get my hands on it. I paid the unfeasibly large amount of money, and swept the lilac fur-covered thing home.
There was great delight on Christmas Day, but I soon noticed the Furby was not Child Two’s favourite toy. In fact, she rarely even looked at it. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You have to interact with it so it’ll learn more words and songs and stuff.’ This is the idea with Furbies – the more you play with them, the more they do. But Child Two was strangely reluctant. When I tried to persuade her, she became tearful.
‘What is it with the Furby? I combed the country for that thing,’ I said, with my fingers slightly crossed behind my back. ‘It’s rude to me,’ she replied in a small voice.
‘Rude to you? What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘It said, ‘I don’t like you,” she confessed, tearfully.
I couldn’t quite believe it. How could the makers have programmed a toy to say such a thing? To be so mean? Just then, I distinctly heard the Furby pipe up. ‘I don’t like you,’ it said, in its horrible, tinny electronic voice. Blimmin Furby! I was beyond furious. How dare this, this, this, lilac-furred monstrosity not like my child!
Well, anyway, the feeling was most definitely mutual. The Furby went straight in the bin.
But now, the Furbies are here again, furrier than ever, and they’re in a toyshop near you. You have been warned.