When I was a toddler, my favourite thing was a little Goofy soft toy. He would go with me wherever I went, and took pride of place on my bed. I loved that little guy to bits, and would often cuddle him as I sat and watched TV. He would comfort me when I had a bad dream, and listen intently when I told him about my day.
I’m not ashamed to admit that – although the cuddling and story-telling ceased – Goofy sat on my bed until I was about 20 years of age. But one day, Goofy went missing. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I was gutted when, a year later, I found out on my wedding day that my beautiful lady wife had – in what I can only assume was a fit of jealousy – lobbed him in the bin.
Now, five years later, my son has ‘Ted’. He carries him everywhere, nuzzles him when he falls asleep, and constantly clutches his paw in his chubby little hand.
Ted is caked in dried snot, and bits of food, and dribble. He stinks. Someone fetch me a bin.