Fluffy the Bear
We have a teddy bear called Fluffy. She's a pyjama case really, but she's well disguised as a bear. She's called Fluffy because we acquired her at around the time there were big demos against the Criminal Justice Bill, and everyone used to argue about which protesting approach was best: fluffy or spiky. I came down a little more on the spiky side than Ally, but we were both pretty spiky really. And fluffy as well. We had a band called Fluffy v. Spiky. I was the singer, he was the guitarist. We were pretty rubbish but we enjoyed ourselves. We wrote our own songs and defined our own genre: techno blues. And we had a teddy called Fluffy. Who was really a pyjama case.
Anyway, Fluffy lives in our bedroom these days, just in case we ever need a pyjama case. Which we don't because we're not that type of people. We don't wear pyjamas, and even if we did we'd throw them on the floor or if you're really lucky stuff them under a pillow. We wouldn't tidy them away in a case. But Fluffy doubles up as a hot-water-bottle warmer, as long as it's only a small bottle, so we keep her handy. For those times when you fill a bottle with water too hot, and it becomes uncomfortable to cuddle and makes big red patches on your skin.
I'm the same with cups of tea. They're always either too hot or too cold. If I make a cuppa I want instant gratification; I don't want to wait. But I have a stupidly-soft mouth that can't cope with either type of hot, so I add cold water to get it right. But then I get distracted and suddenly it's too cold again. At least with Fluffy you can remove the bottle when it stops being warm enough and - hey presto! - it's warm enough again. Except of course by that time you're probably asleep. And we have decent central heating now and don't need them any more.
Felix (our 5-yr-old son), when he spots poor old Fluffy, lying dusty under the bed or forgotten under a pile of unworn pyjamas in the corner, brings her to us helpfully. He thinks we must surely be lonely in our big bed with no cuddly toys. He says we can borrow some of his if we like. He brings them up to us, making us promise to give them back and getting hurt and bewildered when he finds them dusty under the bed a week later.
There is also a teddy bear called Sarah, who is only five years younger than me. She lives on a wide arm-swivel-chair in my study, which I never sit on, even though it's in a good spot with a good view. Sarah sits there instead.
Sarah's called Sarah because of Margaret Thatcher. Sort of. I didn't like boys much when I was five, and I believed fiercely in women's lib, although my sister said I didn't because if I did I would think girls were equal to boys, rather than vastly superior. Me and my best friend Mandy Berkeley would march around the infant playground arm in arm, shouting "Boys are rubbish, put them in the dustbin!" I made that chant up myself. I was very proud of it. And I was very pleased when Mrs T got in, cos she was a woman and therefore brilliant. And I didn't see why teddies had to be boys. I still don't.
Felix doesn't understand why cuddly toys live dusty under beds or on their own in studies. I think he worries for them.
Poor Sarah, I've always felt sorry for her. She never quite looks happy. I used to give her a cloth doll called Belinda to snuggle up to so she wouldn't get lonely, but she never looked very happy about that either. But she's only a toy, so she's probably fine. She's very cuddly, although Felix doesn't agree. He has very exacting standards of snuggliness. He's spoilt. He has a million snuggly toys (for heaven's sake people, try to be a bit more imaginative when your friends have babies - those bloody snugglies were the bain of my life. What on earth was I supposed to DO with them all? Clothes would have been much more useful. Or biscuits.) (Then again, Felix loves all his snugglies now, it's just when he was an oblivious baby they were all rather pointless) (and how the hell was he supposed to choose a favourite, with so many?), yes, thousand upon thousand of them, and many of them are made of Superior Modern Stuff which is a million times more snuggly than anything we had when we were kids. Which is why I was surprised when he took Fluffy off to bed with him the other night and announced she was the snuggliest thing he had ever snuggled.
And that's why I'm snuggling her now, which was supposed to be the point of this post. And is. I just took longer getting there than I intended. I'm cuddling Fluffy and thinking about how it turns you into someone else, when you nuzzle up to a Very Snuggly Thing. You become a young child again.
It's very nice. I recommend it.
___
Anyway, Fluffy lives in our bedroom these days, just in case we ever need a pyjama case. Which we don't because we're not that type of people. We don't wear pyjamas, and even if we did we'd throw them on the floor or if you're really lucky stuff them under a pillow. We wouldn't tidy them away in a case. But Fluffy doubles up as a hot-water-bottle warmer, as long as it's only a small bottle, so we keep her handy. For those times when you fill a bottle with water too hot, and it becomes uncomfortable to cuddle and makes big red patches on your skin.
I'm the same with cups of tea. They're always either too hot or too cold. If I make a cuppa I want instant gratification; I don't want to wait. But I have a stupidly-soft mouth that can't cope with either type of hot, so I add cold water to get it right. But then I get distracted and suddenly it's too cold again. At least with Fluffy you can remove the bottle when it stops being warm enough and - hey presto! - it's warm enough again. Except of course by that time you're probably asleep. And we have decent central heating now and don't need them any more.
Felix (our 5-yr-old son), when he spots poor old Fluffy, lying dusty under the bed or forgotten under a pile of unworn pyjamas in the corner, brings her to us helpfully. He thinks we must surely be lonely in our big bed with no cuddly toys. He says we can borrow some of his if we like. He brings them up to us, making us promise to give them back and getting hurt and bewildered when he finds them dusty under the bed a week later.
There is also a teddy bear called Sarah, who is only five years younger than me. She lives on a wide arm-swivel-chair in my study, which I never sit on, even though it's in a good spot with a good view. Sarah sits there instead.
Sarah's called Sarah because of Margaret Thatcher. Sort of. I didn't like boys much when I was five, and I believed fiercely in women's lib, although my sister said I didn't because if I did I would think girls were equal to boys, rather than vastly superior. Me and my best friend Mandy Berkeley would march around the infant playground arm in arm, shouting "Boys are rubbish, put them in the dustbin!" I made that chant up myself. I was very proud of it. And I was very pleased when Mrs T got in, cos she was a woman and therefore brilliant. And I didn't see why teddies had to be boys. I still don't.
Felix doesn't understand why cuddly toys live dusty under beds or on their own in studies. I think he worries for them.
Poor Sarah, I've always felt sorry for her. She never quite looks happy. I used to give her a cloth doll called Belinda to snuggle up to so she wouldn't get lonely, but she never looked very happy about that either. But she's only a toy, so she's probably fine. She's very cuddly, although Felix doesn't agree. He has very exacting standards of snuggliness. He's spoilt. He has a million snuggly toys (for heaven's sake people, try to be a bit more imaginative when your friends have babies - those bloody snugglies were the bain of my life. What on earth was I supposed to DO with them all? Clothes would have been much more useful. Or biscuits.) (Then again, Felix loves all his snugglies now, it's just when he was an oblivious baby they were all rather pointless) (and how the hell was he supposed to choose a favourite, with so many?), yes, thousand upon thousand of them, and many of them are made of Superior Modern Stuff which is a million times more snuggly than anything we had when we were kids. Which is why I was surprised when he took Fluffy off to bed with him the other night and announced she was the snuggliest thing he had ever snuggled.
And that's why I'm snuggling her now, which was supposed to be the point of this post. And is. I just took longer getting there than I intended. I'm cuddling Fluffy and thinking about how it turns you into someone else, when you nuzzle up to a Very Snuggly Thing. You become a young child again.
It's very nice. I recommend it.
___
Labels: Philosophisering
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