I never read any Beatrix Potter when younger, but Peter Rabbit was my loyal
He put up with a lot. I bit out his glass eyes, his nose fell off,
then a leg or two, and then his head. My grandma lovingly sewed him back
together each time. And I cuddled and cuddled and cuddled him, until his fur fell
off. Only the inside of his left ear escaped, reminding me of how soft he must
have been before my memories of him formed.
He went everywhere with me,
secreted away on childhood holidays to Wales, Guide camp, university, a move to
London, a move out of London. When I was younger, I believed he led his own
life when I was safely asleep - attending parties, meeting Enid Blyton (not
Beatrix Potter!), and having adventures; perhaps I still believe this.
sits on my bookcase, well away from my small son’s grasp. He is only mine to
misuse and cuddle and love.