Doppelgänger

Welcome to my nightmare...

Of all the things I've come across while unpacking my entire life from 15 years ago, this, I'm quite sure, is the most disconcerting.  It was, this afternoon, the last thing out of the last box to be emptied, and it nearly gave me the fantods.  If anything, of all the things that have descended on us out of storage, qualifies as a primo example of the word I coined last year - regrettabilia - this, certainly is it.

My dear, late lamented friend Bruce gave me Baby Noodles one especially bibulous Christmas about 20 years ago, on the pretext that it looked exactly like me as a baby.  He wasn't there, Bruce, back in my toddlerdom, but I have to admit he wasn't far off.  It's surprisingly weighty, made of thick and unforgiving china, and the cord that holds the whole thing together has, it seemed, stretched with age, meaning that if not carefully handled, the head lolls dangerously in an unnervingly realistic way.

For the moment (until, possibly, he comes at one of us with a knife) he perches on Grandmother Muscato's Shaker chair in the back bedroom.  I'm not sure how long Mr. Muscato is going to let him remain, and if his veto doesn't prevail, I think it's only a matter of time until he's savaged by a Yorkie on a rampage.

It's times like this that I really wish Bruce were still around.  I think, you see, but I'm not sure, that Baby's wearing my shoes, and if and when he heads off to a thrift shop, I'd hate to lose them...