I still sleep with my Teddy.
When I was about 12, I tried sleeping without my Teddy. Instead, I put it on the windowsill with the other teddies. But most nights, after going to bed, I would get up and grab Ted from his little spot and snuggle up with him, then replace him the next morning. I thought I was too old to still be sleeping with a Teddy.
Then, around 15, I reached an age where I thought it was cool, it a retro kind of a way, to still have a fluffy companion at night.
And now, I just plain don't care.
I have been ill all week and in the absence of my Mum, Ted has done a good job of comforting me. Aren't Mums great? They pick up your snotty tissues and hold your hair back while you hurl, all without a thought to themselves that they might catch your lurgy. Ted, whilst he can't pass me tissues or clean up sick, doesn't mind at all when I cough in his face, or steal the blanket away from him. He is just there.
Any men in my life have stiff competition to face in Ted.
You would think that my current squeeze (I'm actually talking about a man now, not my Teddy) would want to race to my bedside and mop my fevered brow when he found I was ill...ok maybe not race, but at least reluctantly walk with a pack of Paracetamol in tow.
But no. Although he was planning to see me on Sunday, he actually changed his plans in order to avoid me and my flu.
Part of me reasons that this is a very logical and sensible thing to do and completely understandable. And the other part is just hurt. I am the other side of the world from my family, I was very ill. And I needed a little company. And more importantly, and this is what puzzles me as to whether I should be wasting my time on this shmuck, is that I would have been there for him. So where does that leave us?
For the mean time, it leaves me and Ted. And I'm quite happy with that.