He is small, brown, fluffy, and has no eyes. I say he – I’ve actually no idea how you tell the gender of a teddy bear.
My next door neighbour has named him Bruno, and he turned up on top of the hedge outside our house a few weeks ago.
He must have been dropped in the layby outside, and someone had propped him up among the privet in the hope his owner would come back.
I found him when I got home from work, looking lonely and bedraggled and (am I being a bit too fanciful here?) rather sad.
Instantly I imagined some small person broken-hearted at losing their little furry friend.
Bruno, the name has stuck, has that slightly raggedy look of a favourite, well-loved toy.
Sure, the tears will dry after a while. A smarter substitute can be bought. But it will never be quite the same.
So I popped him in a plastic bag to keep him dry, and put him back on the hedge hoping someone would come looking for him.
There he sat for a fortnight. So far, he is unclaimed.
I confess I’ve got a ridiculously sentimental streak. I worried about him out there all alone in the weather that had suddenly turned typically British summer – cold and wet.
When it hammered down so hard he got damp despite the plastic bag I took him into the kitchen to dry out.
My last hope now is that one of you can help give this story a happy ending.
If Bruno sounds familiar to you, and he went missing in Lower Street, Cavendish, please email me firstname.lastname@example.org, or call the Free Press on 01787 886907.
Otherwise, I will just have to adopt him.
IT was a beautiful day, warm and sunny. I was driving along with, at that precise moment, scarecely a care in the world.
Then a slight movement in the side window caught my eye.
The sun was shining on the glass reflecting my arm stretched out to the steering wheel.
But underneath it, something shocking had happened.
A nano-second before I was thinking of nothing more than the lovely view, the golden fields, the wildflowers on the verge.
There, on the road from Pentlow to Foxearth, I was completely unprepared to be hit by one of those blinding flash moments when you realise age and gravity are taking their toll.
They had arrived. The dreaded bingo wings.
I’d always thought that was a brilliant description. It made me laugh. But that was before ... now it was my turn.
The skin under my arms seemed to have come loose and every time I drove over a bump it was gently flapping.
How did that happen? How long had they been there? Did they just fly in the window when I wasn’t looking?
When I’d blithely waved my arms about had people been thinking, ooh poor soul, she really shouldn’t be wearing that sleeveless top!
I kept driving but I couldn’t stop my eyes from straying sideways in the hope I’d imagined it. No such luck.
My God. If I hit a pothole I could take off like Dumbo the elephant.
Expect to see a silver Hyundai soaring over the rooftops of Sudbury sometime soon.