I put a lot of stock in material possessions, but this is one of the few things I own, that I actually love.
Over thirty years ago this little bear was presented to me by my uncle Bob. He wasn't actually my uncle, he was dad's best-man at his wedding, but all family friends were aunty-this or uncle-that.
The bear was saved from a fire in a warehouse which contained toys. The building was lost, but Uncle Bob rescued two very singed black lumps of fur from the pile of rubbish left by the fire brigade.
One went to my 'cousin' Angela and one went to me.
Except I didn't really see him for a week or two. He spent the whole of this time being washed, aired, and re-washed as he stunk of the deeply ingrained soot from the fire. But eventually I got him.
He's been repaired many times, and now his fur is balding, and his stuffing is rotten, and his eyes are dull. But he still weathers on.
He has no name. He was never given one, and he never needed one. He was always My Bear.
And I love him today as I loved him then.
