When plush attacks

I ventured out to lunch today with a couple of friends from work, including Edina, who's currently on maternity leave. She brought along her shiny new son, Keiran, and whilst all the grown ups were talking about the things grown ups talk about I entertained Keiran with some of his toys... ok, I admit it, amusing the child was nothing more than a pretence so I could play with his toys. I was instantly beguiled by one in particular, a bright orange beanie dog, with floppy blue ears, green spots and, in my hands, a lolloping gait. I took great delight in making it run around the table, pouncing on some of the other toys, sniffing peoples food and generally making a nuisance of myself. I think I lost Keirans attention along the way, but as you might suspect, that was entirely besides the point.

I have a great affinity for soft toys. It stretches back to my early childhood, when I was given a large kangaroo by my Gran (not a real kangaroo, you understand, though it was real enough to me at the time). Being a clever and imaginative child, I immediately named it Kanga, and was terribly pleased with my ingenuity. However, it didn't seem right that Kanga should have no other friends, and I realised I would have to rectify this. I did so by hoarding all the soft toys that came my way. Golliwogs, panda, rabbits and more I claimed. I even went so far as to trade with my brothers and sisters. With suitable company for Kanga now found, I had to deal with the sleeping arrangements. I kept all of them in my bed, you see, each in a particular position, depending on how fond I was of it. It was a very precise arrangement and it was not unlike putting a jigsaw together each night. As my domain expanded and it's inhabitants grew in number, I eventually accrued so many of them that there was little room left for me in my own bed, except at the very edge. It didn't trouble me at all, and I was quite content to resign myself to the periphery of my mattress. Even now, that's still where I tend to sleep, right at the very edge of the bed. I can't remember how long this state of affairs continued, until my Mum, out of worriment and concern, I suspect, decided that enough was enough and one day I returned home from school to find my bed emptied.

That was a bleak day.

That would probably have been it for me, had I not started work in the Disney store years later. Back in those days, each store had a large display of soft toys, piled in an arrangement known as Plush Mountain. Every day this assortment of toys would be torn apart by the screaming hoards and every night it would be carefully rebuilt, ready for the cycle to begin again the following day. It was generally regarded to be a very tedious job which nobody particularly enjoyed, since all the toys had to be placed in a precise arrangement and it was not unlike putting a jigsaw puzzle together each night. Believe it or not, I displayed a particular aptitude for the task.

On the whole there weren't too many perks associated with it. Save for one or two. The first was easy enough to explain. On any given day, I could almost guarantee that at least one customer (or guest in Disneyspeak) would gaze longingly upon my handiwork and express a desire to take a running leap in the pile of plush. Well... been there done that. And yes, it's every bit as much fun as it sounds. The second was a little more mischievious. As my plush building talents grew (and grow they did. My skills were reknown far and wide - district managers, who daily traversed stores up and down the country expressed their admiration for my plush compositions. It's not much of a boast, really, when you think about it, but I take what I can get), so to did my ability to manipulate it. Say for instance, stacking the toys so that to the untrained eye the resulting mound may look perfectly stable, but were you to remove just one particular keystone toy, the whole pile would collapse in a particularly splendid and colourful avalanche of synthetic fibres. I'm not a particularly malevolent character, so it's not a practice I engaged in often, but there were a few occasions when temptation got the better of me, and on the following day some mother would be startled to discover the apple of her eye, standing neck deep in a plush landslide, with a startled expression on their face, one hand clutching that single fateful toy. In my defense, before ye think me too nefarious, I'll swear hand on heart that the child in question always loved it.

Those were happy times.

P.S. lest anyone get any funny ideas I have to point out that I'm no plushie (if you don't know, don't ask - innocence, once lost, is hard regained).