Day 19: The Murder

When I was six years old, Boglins were officially the most brilliant thing in the universe. The full size ones with moving bits were always clearly out of my reach, but I was quite content with my collection of Mini-Boglins - which did include a special edition shiny gold one. I strongly recall having the desire to create a display case for them out of cardboard, although I can't remember if this ever came to fruition.

The only thing more exciting than Mini Boglins however, was Baby Boglins. They came in a little opaque plastic egg, so you didn't really know which one you were going to get. My little brother had a glow in the dark one, which I found absolutely fascinating. I'd seen glow in the dark stuff before I imagine, but the realisation that you could increase the strength of the glow by putting it near to a bright light qualifies as being fairly groundbreaking science when you're six years old.

In what felt like a Nobel prize-worthy gambit, I decided one evening it was time to push this science to the limit - placing the illuminated bulb of my bedside lamp about an inch away from the Baby Boglin and switching it on. I then went downstairs to watch Coronation Street with my parents, all the while buzzing with excitement over my undoubtedly brilliant creation - when exposed for this long, it would no doubt illuminate the entire room!

I don't need to tell you what actually happened, because you're not six years old.

The melancholic nature of its googly eyes amplified by the state of it's body and tail, which had now become a nonspecific shape of latex gloop - now partially attached to the wooden shelf it sat on. I'd killed a Boglin. My intentions were good - it was manslaughter at best - but nonetheless, I was panicked. I'd killed a Boglin. Not only that, it was my brother's Boglin. A Baby Boglin, for Christ's sake. I was in trouble.

But I had a plan - it was undeniably foolproof, a stroke of infallible genius. I would quite simply, do nothing. I would not touch it, or look at it. Eventually when my mother noticed the burnt Boglin corpse on my bedside shelf, I would turn and look surprised. I would tell her that I had no idea how it had happened, and that it was nothing to do with me.

Of course, I don't need to tell you what actually happened, because you're not six years old.

I doubt you'll even remember it to be honest, but I'm sorry I killed your Boglin.