When I was one, my parents threw me a party. Like many parties I have been to in my life, I can’t really remember most (or any) of it. I’m pretty sure it was a rocking party though, and am almost certain there will have been cake. I am never far from cake.
Anyhoo, after the revellers had left and the detritus cleared away my parents set about sorting out the presents the guests had thoughtfully brought me. In doing so they found a teddy bear.
He most definitely hadn’t been given to me as a present, so they called all the guests. Nobody was missing a teddy bear.
For a while they kept him separate from my other toys. My parents didn’t want me getting attached to the teddy, only for it’s true owner to come forward and take him away claim him. But then it became clear that no-one was actually going to come and get him.
Poor little teddy bear.
And so, he became my teddy bear. I adopted him, took him under my wing, dribbled on cuddled him. Adopted Ted (we didn’t know his real name) became part of the family.
We have had a lot of adventures together. He was a regular passenger in my doll’s pram, he attended my clinic (I was a fully qualified fisher price doctor. I prescribed an awful lot of injections of baby powder/water mixture. Adopted Ted was dead brave…). When I was grown up he came to university with me, and has followed me around as I have moved from house to house. I expect there are many tales he could tell you, which makes me very glad he’s a teddy bear and therefore cannot talk.
He currently resides on the top of Big M’s wardrobe, but having got him down for a mini photo shoot I have guilt. I mean, I love this teddy, I should let him know every now and then.