Life with Barry

I'm making progress with Barry.

If you can't remember, he's the giant Hula Hoop that adopted us before Christmas. To start with he did nothing more than hide quietly under the sofa. Occasionally, if I was in another room, I'd hear him trundle around in the open but he'd scoot back into hiding the instant I came to investigate.

After a week or so I noticed that, if I was in the lounge and all was calm, he'd cautiously roll out a few inches and pause, like a mother fox emerging from her den and sniffing the night air. He'd quickly roll back out of sight if I glanced down at him, but I was pleased nevertheless at his growing confidence.

Over the next few days he became bolder - rolling out further each time, and each time slower to roll back. Then one day, he came right into the middle of the lounge and just sat there, even when I forgot myself and stared openly at him. He swivelled on the spot to look back at me (don't ask me how I know when he's looking at me, I just do) and I felt a sudden connection, like a mild electric shock. He knew he was safe with me, and I knew he had an important role to play at some point.

I asked my son what he thought of Barry, and he just looked at me with that puzzled blankness young children have. Later, I overheard him whispering conspiratorially to his older brother about invisible friends and there was much giggling. Meh. What do they know?

And now, if I'm sat writing or reading on the floor, Barry will trundle up and lie next to me. I catch a faint whiff of paprika. It's strangely comforting.