The Bear is Dead

On the weekend I spent some happy hours op-shopping in Tenterfield, birthplace of our nation and Peter Allen. They now have a motor inn named after him so it seems they have come to terms with his sexuality. Anyway, after discovering a pair of lovely old cardigans in beige and green, I realised that next to them, my old mauve fake fur coat was looking a bit shabby. I remembered our precious time spent together.

We first met in a mini-skip outside a church in Paddington in the early 1990s. The poor coat had been left for dead. Being one of those pathetic individuals who cannot help but peer into dumpsters before walking past them, often with arms full of loot, I claimed the sorry pelt as my own. After a few careful repairs and a bath in wonder soap it was fully returned to service for another chance at life. O happy day.

Now, some have said that it resembled an old bear who went into the forest to die. This is rather a generous description perhaps. Others would postulate that it had been mauled by dingoes, pecked by galahs and buried in a scrub turkey mound during the wet season circa 1991 - back before the pace of climate change stepped up and we still had wet seasons. Whatever the case, the name of the jacket was coined : "the (Paddington) Bear". For like its English namesake, the Bear was not without a certain charm and it seemed to go with all of my other clothes. Which certainly says something about my wardrobe.
It is true that the Bear and I shared the best of what life has to offer. Together we traveled far and wide- New York, London, Prague, Dubrovnik, Montenegro, Naples, Canberra. Weddings, parties, banquets, the Bear was there. Life was never so much fun if I left the bear behind.

I remember when its lining disintegrated. Sometimes when I put it on, my hand came out of unexpected openings or disappeared into strange places like it had found a portal to Narnia. This was beginning to cause problems in our relationship and I noticed that my friends started to avoid me when I would wear the Bear. Status Anxiety won out. Yes, we've been through alot together. But now it is time to move on. It is a quality of life issue for the Bear. Not just myself. So this morning I began the ritual to prepare the Bear for burial. His beautiful mauve eyelike plastic buttons, strangely situated on the outside of each frontal pocket were harvested for memento mori. And the 'Up the Creek without a paddle' resident brooch unpinned for the final time. I usually cut up my old clothes for household rags but that does not seem right somehow for the Bear. Does anyone have any ideas for a fitting farewell? Maybe a winter solstice fire ritual. Or do I find him another mini-skip to turn the tale full circle?