August 7th

August 7th

Oh my goodness. Toy Story was fantastic. It was everything I hoped it would be and so much more. To me, it was a film that was made mostly for the now adults who, like me, remember being taken to the cinema way back in 1996 to see Woody and team off on an enchanting adventure. Now, 14 years later, we’re all a little older, yet the magic still holds. I didn’t just feel nostalgic as I watched Woody get all exasperated with the other toys when they weren’t listening, I felt literally catapulted back to my five year old self, wide-eyed with amazement. 

Toy Story 3 has come out at exactly the right time in my life for it to be just that bit more poignant, I, like Andy have just flown the nest, and feel tug of my child self every once and a while, wishing to be back at home with all my teddies around me in bed and nothing more to worry about than whether I would play with my teddies or Barbies that day. My parents have always reminded me just how much I loved my own Woody, a bear bought for me not long after I was born, Scruffy, who now lives up to his name more than ever, his once soft fur more than a little matted and faded and rather large bald patch on the back. Scruffy went everywhere with me for probably what was a little longer than most children, and even when it came the time that Scruffy didn’t get to go on excursions anymore, he slept in my bed with me. I would be devastated if anything happened to him, and he would definitely be the least practical item on my “five things I’d save in a fire” list. But even at nearly 19, I couldn’t part with him. Which is I suppose where Andy and I differ. I am too selfish to give Scruffy away, even to a nice little girl who promised to look after him and love him as much as I do. I expect, even when I’m middle aged, married and altogether a grown up. Scruffy will have his place in my bedroom with me where he belongs. Everyone has their comforts, mine is Scruffy.