The first thing I can remember losing is an action man dagger. White handled, part of the snow patrol set, or something similar to the snow patrol set (there was a lot of perfectly serviceable not-quite-official Action Man stuff around, often of a better quality than the real thing.) I have no idea what happened to it. The memory of looking for it is stronger than the memory of caring about finding it, though I must have cared because I was looking for it. I don’t know. These are old memories, unreliable and useless. The most graspable thought from back then is that it was most likely to be on top of the wardrobe. It wasn’t on top of the wardrobe. It remained lost.
Action Man has undergone a few makeovers in its time but my childhood was back in the days of military uniforms, anatomically correct firearms and surprisingly racist story books*. A snow coloured dagger was just one more inappropriate thing among many but it is not impossible that my mother drew some sort of line at toy knives and silently threw mine away. Equally unlikely is the possibility that another child in the street stole it. I’m pretty sure I just lost it in the garden somewhere, and it is still there, buried deep below the cotoneaster by countless generations of earthworms. Who cares? It’s just a toy dagger. It doesn’t matter.
*oh, and I’m not kidding about the racist story books. The one I had, Mission Release, about a Japanese POW camp, was scarily racist. Bloodthirsty too. Just massively, massively wrong on many many levels.