This is going to sound like a very, very strange post to come from a man.
When going to bed on an evening, I will often get to the bedroom first and discover that the bed is laden with a number of items. This “collection” may comprise any or all of the following - an assortment of cushions, a robe (the remnants of the morning), a novelty cartoon character pyjama case, and a number of soft toys.
The soft toys probably warrant further description, given the title of this post (and the direction it will eventually head in). We have a rather floppy moose, bought while I was still going out with W. Apparently his name is “Mortimer” - we know this thanks to a large cardboard tag affixed to his right ear.
Another toy is a rather ancient and battle-worn Steiff teddy bear who has no name.
Patches of his fur are either thinning, or already bald, and he only has one eye. I am told that the lack of fur was caused by him being loved (and therefore hugged) too much when W was young. One of his legs is a little loose - this was the result of an unfortunate accident requiring a visit to the Reading teddy bear hospital for a hip replacement. Later in his life he visited a cosmetic surgeon for a paw lift, receiving skin grafts. W informs me that both episodes were very stressful times during her childhood (actually, she informs me, she was 30 when she “had his paws done”).
Where am I going with this?
Oh yes - when I go to bed on an evening, I invariably have to clear the various items from the bed. This involves throwing the soft toys on the floor… only I don’t just throw them. I pick each of them up, and gently drop them, as if they might be real, and could suffer in some way by spending the night upside down, facing the wall.
The other day I found myself folding the dry washing in the spare room, and spotted that another teddy bear had fallen from the spare bed, and was trapped, upside down, between the bedside table and the wall. I couldn’t leave the room without picking him up and sitting him on the bed.
Notice something even more worrying? I have referred to the various teddy bears as “him” all the way through this post. Since when did some stitched material and stuffing with buttons for eyes suddenly anthramorphose into something real? (perhaps “Transmography” might be a better word - I guess you have to read Calvin & Hobbes to get that one).
Is this my feminine side, or am I just a bit loopy? If I do believe in toys coming to life in the night, does that make me mad and slightly scary, or just eccentric? Perhaps believe is too strong a word. Suspect is better.
You might think toys couldn’t possibly come to life, but then how would you know? I’ve seen Toy Story - explain that.