A good while ago my sister bought me a stuffed toy of Stewie from Family Guy. For some time, he lived atop some shelves in the bedroom, his beady little eyes looking out across the room and his accusatory finger pointed in menace towards us – it really followed you round the room.
At some point, he was relegated to a plastic crate in a wardrobe where he has lived for a few years now. But recently he was unearthed and, since then, has been trying his hardest to freak Carole out. Because if there’s one thing she hates more than being hit in the face with a Bagpuss flung down the stairs, it’s finding Stewie somewhere she didn’t expect.
He’s been on top of the bathroom door and in the bed. In one masterstroke of genius he was in her wardrobe, at eye height, nestled snuggly amongst the garments in there. And, most recently, he was placed in a transparent plastic box underneath something that Carole would, at some point, need to move. That point was tonight.
She called him a mother-fudger. Or something like that.
Each time Carole finds him, she hides him somewhere to get at me. Except I am not scared of Stewie like she is. So when I found him, for example, in my underwear draw the other day, wearing a sock as a onesie, it didn’t phase me. When he decided to end it all by hanging himself on the stair bannister with the cord from Carole’s dressing gown it was a sad time, yes, but he still found himself up and at ’em for hiding in the wardrobe, or bed, or wherever it was he ended up.
Tonight, though, Carole threw him out of an upstairs window. She went to all the trouble of moving the various gnomes, penguins and dusty plants from the bathroom windowsill and threw him onto the patio. Then screamed and made out that a bat had flown past the window and scared her.
Defenestrating a poor defenceless toy is a huge step in this battle.
Now it’s on….