He is old now, like me, but he has aged better.
His face is unwrinkled, his body the same shape, his eyes as bright as they ever they were.
This is because they are made of glass.
I called my teddy bear Ted, because a child’s imagination had better things to be doing that thinking up replacements for perfectly apt names. He was bigger than me when I was born, a gift from a single uncle who saw no harm in putting something the size of a rucksack into a baby’s cot. I was two before I was allowed to hold him. I wrapped my arms around most of his Buddha shape, snuggled my face into his furry softness, and fell in love.
Ted and I did everything together. We wrestled on the floor, with him pinning me down, winning, winning until the last second when I would suddenly roll us both to my right, leaving me on top.
No matter how often we did it he never seemed to see that move coming.
He was a patient if useless goalkeeper. Even if he did manage to block one of my penalties, usually with his face, he would topple backwards into the goal with the ball rolling in after him, meaning that George Best, as I always was, had scored again.
When I got my first bike I would jam his bum into the little wicker basket at the front, with his feet pointing up to his nose, and we would speed down the long stretch towards the end of our road at terrific speeds.
Our favourite part of this (and I know I speak for both of us here) was when I would stop suddenly to see how far forward I could propel him out of the basket.
My mother used to mention this whenever I would ask if I could have a little brother.