**NOTE: This was written on 13th August. I told you I was playing catch-up...**
Oh gods, I have guilt. The most unbearable, earth-shattering, bone-crunching guilt, weighing down on me like a suit of armour. I thought I'd dealt with the trauma, but it took a trip to the cinema to make me realise that, actually, guilt of this proportion never, ever leaves you...
The reason for my current, crushing guilt is that I've just got back from seeing Toy Story 3. Unlike many of the grown men in the audience, I did not quietly sob my way through the film; I didn't even loudly sob, although I will confess to a slight lump in the throat as the film unfolded, but the sudden wave of guilt that crashed over me as I sat in the darkness was stifling. I, too, was like Andy once, young and carefree and completely obsessed with my favourite toys. I loved my Lego and my Fisher Price People; I cuddled my Doggy Wheels and had my Fisher Price Chatterphone that I was quite attached to; but the two toys that I worshipped and adored above and beyond any other were two cuddly toys. One was a pink and white mouse that I received from Father Christmas at playgroup when I was three, and who still regards me with the same curious and compassionate expression at twenty-eight as he did at three. I will never, ever give up my Pinkie, not for anyone; not even if Paul O'Connell, Jenson Button, Paul Collingwood, David Beckham, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Eddie Izzard, David Tennant, all of Apocalyptica and Till Lindemann himself (more about my bizarre and varied crushes later, I feel) turned up on my doorstep all at once and begged for my hand in marriage, complete with drawn-up rota for how they'd share my time (and the chores) on the condition that the mouse goes. Sorry, fellas, not even the combined pull of your obvious and varied charms could ever persuade me to completely rid myself of my faithful Pinkie. And the reason for this faintly ludicrous attachment to a pink and white stuffed mouse is also the reason for the wave of utter shame and culpability that swept over me in the cinema: I have lost a beloved toy and, to this day, remain utterly ignorant of his whereabouts. I want to die at the thought.
His name was Coco. He was a knitted clown that was presented to me when I was born; so young was I that I don't even remember the very first time we were introduced, but from the very moment that he was placed into my crib, we were inseperable. Coco and I went everywhere together, did everything together...he was my best friend, my confidante and my constant companion; when I cried, he was there, when I laughed, he got the joke. He was my world and I knew we'd always be together.
Alas, like all first loves, it was not to be. At the age of seven, my parents divorced and we moved in with my maternal grandparents. Pinkie was definitely there but, to this day, I can't be sure whether Coco was. I don't know what's worse, the fact that I lost him or the fact that I can't remember when and where I lost him. All I know is that one day he was there and the next, he was gone. Did I give him to someone, in the mistaken belief that I was too old for such things? Had I left him somewhere, abandoning him to the cruel fate of the 'lost toy'? Having seen Toy Story 3, I now have a terrible sense of guilt that, wherever he is, Coco feels that I callously tossed him aside. I can only hope that he ended up somewhere nice, with a child who loved him as much as I did and who wouldn't be so cruel as to just lose him.
I still have my Pinkie, and I still have one picture of me with Coco, but the actual object of my first ever love has been lost to the travels and travails of growing up. I can only hope that wherever he is, Coco is happy and knows that, while we were together, he was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
And I'll never watch bloody Toy Story again without feeling that awful knot in the pit of my stomach...thanks, Pixar!
Oh gods, I have guilt. The most unbearable, earth-shattering, bone-crunching guilt, weighing down on me like a suit of armour. I thought I'd dealt with the trauma, but it took a trip to the cinema to make me realise that, actually, guilt of this proportion never, ever leaves you...
The reason for my current, crushing guilt is that I've just got back from seeing Toy Story 3. Unlike many of the grown men in the audience, I did not quietly sob my way through the film; I didn't even loudly sob, although I will confess to a slight lump in the throat as the film unfolded, but the sudden wave of guilt that crashed over me as I sat in the darkness was stifling. I, too, was like Andy once, young and carefree and completely obsessed with my favourite toys. I loved my Lego and my Fisher Price People; I cuddled my Doggy Wheels and had my Fisher Price Chatterphone that I was quite attached to; but the two toys that I worshipped and adored above and beyond any other were two cuddly toys. One was a pink and white mouse that I received from Father Christmas at playgroup when I was three, and who still regards me with the same curious and compassionate expression at twenty-eight as he did at three. I will never, ever give up my Pinkie, not for anyone; not even if Paul O'Connell, Jenson Button, Paul Collingwood, David Beckham, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Eddie Izzard, David Tennant, all of Apocalyptica and Till Lindemann himself (more about my bizarre and varied crushes later, I feel) turned up on my doorstep all at once and begged for my hand in marriage, complete with drawn-up rota for how they'd share my time (and the chores) on the condition that the mouse goes. Sorry, fellas, not even the combined pull of your obvious and varied charms could ever persuade me to completely rid myself of my faithful Pinkie. And the reason for this faintly ludicrous attachment to a pink and white stuffed mouse is also the reason for the wave of utter shame and culpability that swept over me in the cinema: I have lost a beloved toy and, to this day, remain utterly ignorant of his whereabouts. I want to die at the thought.
His name was Coco. He was a knitted clown that was presented to me when I was born; so young was I that I don't even remember the very first time we were introduced, but from the very moment that he was placed into my crib, we were inseperable. Coco and I went everywhere together, did everything together...he was my best friend, my confidante and my constant companion; when I cried, he was there, when I laughed, he got the joke. He was my world and I knew we'd always be together.
Alas, like all first loves, it was not to be. At the age of seven, my parents divorced and we moved in with my maternal grandparents. Pinkie was definitely there but, to this day, I can't be sure whether Coco was. I don't know what's worse, the fact that I lost him or the fact that I can't remember when and where I lost him. All I know is that one day he was there and the next, he was gone. Did I give him to someone, in the mistaken belief that I was too old for such things? Had I left him somewhere, abandoning him to the cruel fate of the 'lost toy'? Having seen Toy Story 3, I now have a terrible sense of guilt that, wherever he is, Coco feels that I callously tossed him aside. I can only hope that he ended up somewhere nice, with a child who loved him as much as I did and who wouldn't be so cruel as to just lose him.
I still have my Pinkie, and I still have one picture of me with Coco, but the actual object of my first ever love has been lost to the travels and travails of growing up. I can only hope that wherever he is, Coco is happy and knows that, while we were together, he was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
And I'll never watch bloody Toy Story again without feeling that awful knot in the pit of my stomach...thanks, Pixar!
2 comments:
CoCo was given to you by Heather, did you ever know that? i'm also not sure what happened to him but he was a beautiful soft toy. and i'm sure he went in the washing machine just a treat, just like that dirty 'pink' (grey, more like) mouse should!!!!!
Really? Aww, bless her! *loves Heather* He was my favouritest toy in the whole world...and you leave Pinkie alone!! I'm still traumatised from the last time you washed him...back in 1980-something!! xx
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