When rifling through some baby photos of mine, there was one that caught me by surprise. One of me lying down clutching a small yellow bear. It made me smile to think that my well-loved worn rag that sits on my pillow now was once a stunning beauty. Despite the loose threads, the two halves of one bear, odd socks used as stuffing it smelt of home, it travelled with me hundreds of miles to places such as New Zealand to visit my somewhat wacky family that lived there and provided comfort when things changed. When the thunderstorms raged above me or when people pushed me in the playground, I'd run home just to hide under a duvet and listen to what he had to say. And now that I'm older and use to the way the world turns, my little thread bare still sits with me as I read reminding me that even though I've grown up there will always be that part of me that will always be a sucker for a soft story.