A Rare Visitation.

I was cleaning up my living room this afternoon when I noticed a car parked at the bottom of my garden with its hazard lights flashing. I regarded it inquisitively for several seconds and then saw a small figure making its way up my garden path.

That’s unusual. You must understand that I’m a loner who rarely makes friends and never joins clubs, cults, social gatherings, church congregations, or any other situations to which the great, the good, and the not-so-good congregate. If ever I form an organised religion it will be limited to me, and will be known as the Non-Congregational Church.

So it was odd to see someone walking up my path…

It turned out to be young Bear, and the car evidently belonged to young Bear’s mother who was in the process of taking him home from school (the day being wet, you understand; they usually walk home.) You might remember young Bear from a post I made a few weeks ago. He’s the boy I mistook for a girl, largely, I assume, having been misled by his long blond Lancelot locks, the like of which are not generally favoured by young boys these days.

But that unfortunate error led me to ask his mother whether she would mind my buying Bear a chocolate selection box for Christmas. ‘Oh, he’d love that,’ said his mother as she touched my arm in approbation. (She touched it about five times actually. I’m not sure that any woman has touched my arm so many times in as many seconds in my life before, but I didn’t tremble or turn blue or do anything else which might have been considered disrespectful.)

So there you have it: I was treated to a brief visit from a young boy called Bear today. He gave me a Christmas card and a fancy tin box containing shortbread biscuits, and I gave him my meagre offering contained in an even fancier Christmassy bag. And it occurred to me that maybe young Bear might become a rare creature I can call ‘friend’ for as long as I have left.