Dear the Kinder Surprise,
Before I delve into my complaint may I first offer my unfaltering love for your chocolatey egg-shaped toy containers. I may be 25 & 4/5’s and as such a man grown, but even after all these years I still enjoy trotting down to the corner shop and buying a handful of your ovaloid curiosities.
Wolfing down that slim shell of chocolate before spending several frustrated hours trying to construct the tiny toys is one of my favourite ways to spend a Sunday evening.
However, my most recent purchase of your Kiddy Flabbergasters has caused me some concern, concern enough that I have taken it upon myself to write to you (which is not a situation I generally find myself in). Please see below for my issue:
A couple of Sundays ago I was at home in my humble flat in the midst of enjoying a bumper marathon session of ‘Humanity Does the Stupidest Things.’ All my chuckling at the painful pratfalls and hilarious head traumas had begun to make me peckish. I waited until the advert break, where some lady was mixing playing tennis with pouring blue liquid over things, before reaching over to my secret stash of elliptical flummoxes.
In a tradition I have observed since I was a spry young lad I unwrapped your fertility symbol shaped chocolate and popped it into my mouth, whole. With great skill and care I ate around the plastic peril hidden within (twice I have been too eager at this part of the ritual and paid for it with trips to A&E), relishing the delicious combination of chocolate and somewhat inedible casing and with practiced skill I tilted my head and shot said shell skywards.
Catching it on its descent with a small shudder of uncontrollable expectation, I cracked the slightly slick little pot open. You’ve certainly become adept at fitting a lot in those little canisters, haven’t you? I daresay even Dr. Who would be proud of your skills. I squealed in surprise, then pain, as the many, many components tumbled onto my lap. The bits and pieces fell to the floor as I followed suit, collapsing into a foetal position, feeling sorry for my bits and pieces.
After five minutes of self-pity I was able to wipe the tears from my eyes and look at what exactly had fallen out of my sorpresa infantile. A plethora of metallic geodesics, rods and panels littered my beige rug, no rhyme or reason to them as far as I could see. Fumbling across the floor I found the instruction guide, still firmly folded inside the little pot.
The graphical representations on your tiny slips of laminatey paper were less than useful. But, I do enjoy a challenge and so with much gusto I set forth to construct whatever on earth was before me.
It took several days of relentless fiddling and swearing until I got the thing built. I stood back, wiping errant engine oil across a tight t-shirt that struggled to contain my spectacular pectorals, before tucking an electrical screwdriver behind my ear. I paused suddenly, hit by dejavu, but the feeling passed quickly and I took stock of what was before me.
Are you sure a scale model of an M48 Patton tank is the best thing for a child? Honestly? I know you’ve been around for years and ideas must dry out, it happens to the best of us, but a war machine? Well, at the time I thought it was a good idea. Sadly I’m too big now to fit in the driver’s seat, so I took it to my brothers house. My niece’s little jam smeared face lit up with joy when I dragged the Patton into the garden.
With alarming ease she hopped in it, fired it up and proceeded to roll around the grass, crushing tonka trucks and Barbie dolls beneath the caterpillar tracks. A giggle of innocent delight filled the air whenever another prepubescent toy was mercilessly ground into plastic splinters by my two-year-old niece.
However, it was after she was sufficiently familiar with the controls that things went a bit sour. My brother still hasn’t forgiven me for the damage his daughter (and by extension me, apparently) managed to inflict on the garden shed, as it turns out what I assumed was just adorable replica ammunition was actually adorable ‘live’ tank shells.
It was only once me and my brother waved a surrender flag jury-rigged out of my oil soiled shirt from behind our defensive position by the garden fence, along with promises of buying her a pony, that we managed to get her out of the tank.
I have no real problem with you using famous instruments of war as a base for some of your toys, but can you please make sure that they actually are child friendly?
Keep up the good work.