Tab A into slot B

The 1940s and 50s were the golden era for paper dolls. By 1974, when I and the girl next door played with them, they were rather retro. She was, like me, an only child; spoiled by her hairdresser mum and her dad, a big man who drove speedway cars on the weekends. She had everything pink, she had Barbie, she had little girls' makeup sets. And she had dolls made of thin cardboard.

They were captivating: briefly my favourite obsession. With no dolls of my own, this opened up a world I hadn’t known about. Carefully cutting around the outlines of little plaid shirts, jackets, fascinators, summer dresses. Changing clothes around to try in different combinations, folding tiny little flaps of card to hold them in place.

I cannot remember the figures. They may have been cardboard Disney characters or renditions of 1970s celebrities, or anonymous bright-eyed dressmaker’s models. All I can feel is my fingers swapping clothes around, eyes flickering across the collection, considering which items went well together. I felt satisfaction from creating ensembles and seeing them change. And always, the tiny little tabs, carefully folded to keep everything where it belonged.