One of my sisters had Barbie and her gear, another Mary Quant's Daisy and hers, and we all ran rival establishments. Mine was the biggest and the best. My Sindys had the shower than worked (a miserable trickle that used up the big expensive batteries faster than I could pay for them) and a bedside lamp that switched on and off. I crocheted rugs for them and cut up a Sindy catalogue to make them a photo album so that they'd have a sense of extended family. My mother knitted them beautiful little Aran jumpers. When my brother's Action Man (the one with moving eyes) left them threatening notes, they sat at their desk and wrote back.
After many years in attics and removal vans, they've reappeared, still in their dated glamour. I admire their plastic patience and am pleased that my daughters can play with them, but they'll have to fend for themselves now. Somewhere along the way I stopped being quite so serious.