Real

1 Mar

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Spring is just around the corner, the daffodils are in the shops (just in time for Saint David’s day) and the rabbits are getting frisky. The rugged rabbit above, sat in the lap of the Bear is called Bunny. He is 58 years old, as old as me, and has been with me since birth. He is  my familiar, a Puca or ‘nature spirit’ (Pookah), a doughty companion of the imagination.

When he was about 7 his head fell off. Distraught, I went to my mother, unable to look at the gory devastation of his stuffing falling out of his torso. My mum was training to be a textiles teacher at the time, so she was well equipped to perform immediate surgery, the butter coloured scarf was her neat way of hiding the stitches in his neck.

At the age of 9 he lost both his eyes in some escapade or other with his pall Henk, and the Surgeon in Chief, darned on a couple of new peepers – the ones you see. When he was twelve he went into enforced exile because ‘The Surgeon’ felt that little Henk now need to become Big Henk as he was going to Grammar School in Autumn of 1969.

Bunny was by then dressed in full Knight Errant regalia of hand knitted chain mail, cardboard armour (including bassinet covered in silver foil) and lance made from Balsa Wood. He was taken astride his steed (a Steiff Donkey) to a local photographer in Matlock and enobled in Kodachrome. Don Quixote had become  Donkey-Hare’s-tale.

I have lost these photographs, but not the memory of my mother’s brilliant and brave parenting in letting me grow up, by getting me to put away a ‘childish thing’.

I absolutely hated Ernest Bailey Grammar School in Matlock. The Masters banned football – only rugby was to be played (although we secretly played soccer with a tennis ball at break) and misdemeanours were punished with the cane or detention, withering sarcasm and disdain were the main fare in lessons. The staff, with the notable exception of the Art Teacher Mr Geoff Smith, The Physics Master Mr. Gregson, the Biology Teacher Mary Downes and the incomparable Mr. Poulson (my woodwork and technical drawing teacher), were as dull as ditch water and mean spirited with it.

Bunny was recently rediscovered. I realised that he is actually a Hare, or Hair-less in his case and that he still is a good pal of mine despite my neglecting his memory. He is the ‘strong silent type’, a ‘good listener’ – sort of how I would like to be, but am decidedly not, my manic depression rendering me unbearably hyper at times and morose and uncommunicative at others.

In rare moments of stillness he speaks to me of a simple notion, beautifully put by Margery Williams in the Velveteen Rabbit

“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

 

P.S. Thanks to Giles Grover for pointing me in the direction of this real and wonderful book. The Bear is called Orson, and he belongs to my wife, he keeps the old coot in check.

 

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