Feeling sorry for inanimate objects
Teddy, pea, bike, house, anything.
An audio version is here for paying subscribers. My impression of a gang of distraught teddies is probably worth the £3.50 a month alone.
My son never had any interest in soft toys as a baby or small child. He always preferred rocks. And yet in his early years, we somehow accumulated a cuddly community larger than the Von Trapp family and Blazin’ Squad combined.
His school are doing a collection of stuffed toys this week. Something to do with the Christmas fete. So this would be the perfect opportunity to get rid of them. And a far better alternative to bagging them up for the charity shop and then leaving them in the boot of the car for the next sixteen years.
My son and I have no attachment to any of them. But when I got them out and saw their little faces, I couldn’t even begin to imagine dropping them off in a bag at the school gates. How could I walk away while they were crying out, “Where are you going? What’s happening? Come back! It’s cold. I don’t like it. I want to go home. Don’t go! Where’s she going? Is she coming back? Please come back.”
And then maybe there’s a wiser teddy telling the others that they just not wanted anymore and breaking their hearts. And then worst of all, they’ll be separated at the school fete. They’ll be wrenched apart from their lifelong friends, their family, and sent to different homes where they’ll get bullied by the other cuddly toys.
I could spend all day catastrophising about this particular situation, so I’ll stop there. And accept that those toys will be with me until the day I die. Even though they are probably already more dust than plush. But I can’t hoover a teddy as it might hurt.
I’m not sure there’s anything more both completely insane and totally normal than feeling sorry for an inanimate object.
My granny once mentioned that she’d never owned a teddy bear in her life. She was in her late eighties at the time and there was some kind of longing in her voice that made me think I’d get her one for Christmas.
At the shop, I picked up one I liked the look of, but then saw it was slightly damaged. So do you think I then:
a) Put it back and found a pristine one?
b) Put it back and found a pristine one, but then felt guilty and ended up buying the slightly damaged one?
Of course it is B. How could anybody do A? I would’ve ruined that teddy’s self-esteem forever.
It’s not just things with eyes. I used to regularly use some bike racks with a motorbike stand on one end. And I’d imagine that a motorbike would seem scary to my little pedal bike and made sure I locked it up at the other side. And preferably next to this nice old-fashioned bike with a wicker basket that I’d often see, as I thought she looked nice and they’d get on. This is quite mad, actually.
But are you even human if you don’t make sure that the one pea that’s been dropped on the floor has got company in the bin by throwing in another? You don’t want it to be lonely! Who would it talk to? It’s probably got its own language that leftover pasta doesn’t understand. Nobody else will share its life experience of being in that pod with its little gang and then being shelled and separated and losing its gang in a huge crowd of peas and having to make new friends and often being frozen. I mean, this is quite a unique life; who can relate to that?
There’s nothing that I can’t anthropomorphise. When I was thinking about moving out of my last flat, I could only talk about it to my then-partner in hushed tones or whispers, as I felt terrible about it hearing. It felt really mean to criticise it for being too small in front of its face. Which is just silly. I should really have given it time to prepare and get used to the idea. Imagine how shocked it felt when we just went one day with no warning. It probably said through tears to the neighbouring flat, “I just had no idea it was coming.” I feel awful now. When I leave my current flat, I’ll start dropping gentle hints at least two years before.
I’d love to know your examples of this. See you in the comments!
If you think about it, you've already split them up from their brothers and sisters. That furry grey seal was made at a factory in China along with a 100 other furry grey seals.
Together they were put into a crate and onto a ship where they were sent to the UK. That 100 were split up into a groups of 5 and sent all over the UK. There the five of them sat in the toy shop, watching them individually being taken away. If you listened carefully when you were buying your furry grey seal you would have heard it saying goodbye to its last 4 friends 😆
I've certainly felt the same way when it has come to selling my cars. My dad has always taken incredible care of his motors and I've grown up the same. Of course there's the excitement of getting a new car, but I feel so awful knowing my pride and joy probably won't receive a fraction of the love it did with me. And I'm very careful not to mention impending replacement within earshot (do cars have ears?), as I can vouch for the fact that they really do go wrong the moment they're about to be sold. I even had a car that had been 100% reliable for 70,000 miles break down on the way to trade it in for a newer one.