Too young for words I can just remember feeling. How the torment of separation lurched in my stomach. Strapped in the double buggy, Claire was pushing me away from our Red Front Door along the pavement. Straining to twist and turn around, all I wanted to do was check on Joggy. From the first moment I had set eyes on him, I had developed an affinity to the life sized Golliwog. Working in a London hospital my Grandma found the Robinsons Mascot in the children’s ward having been donated to the play area. Seeing the large, racist toy sat in a yellow plastic chair she immediately instigated its removal. However being unable to bare the thought of an unwanted and wasted toy, packaged and posted him to Cardiff for her newly born granddaughter. Realising the inexorable attachment to the Golliwog I had quickly developed, my parents were unable to separate us, and so to minimise any further potential damage arising from their daughters unfortunately offensive best friend, they cleverly renamed my beloved “Joggy”. Buckled in next to me his lifeless body now lolled with the motion of our vehicle. Fear was beginning to pepper itself in the mash of distress in my stomach. Picturing his body tumbling to the floor, my world became one of anguish. This embryonic understanding of emotion would soon find itself rolling down my cheeks as bubbles of tears would burst forth like water boiling from my tear ducts, and the quivering lip of sorrow would begin to open.