Please look after this bear. Thank you.

'But whatever did you do for food?' asked Mrs Brown. 'You must be starving.'

Bending down, the bear unlocked the suitcase with a small key, which it also had around its neck, and brought out an almost empty glass jar. 'I ate marmelade,' he said, rather proudly. 'Bears like marmelade.'
'But what are you going to do now?' said Mr Brown. 'You can't just sit on Paddington station waiting for something to happen.'

'Oh I shall be all right.... I expect.' The bear bent down to do up its case again. As he did so Mrs Brown caught a glimpse of the writing on the label. It said, simply, PLEASE LOOK AFTER THIS BEAR. THANK YOU.

She turned appealingly to her husband. 'Oh Henry, what shall we do? We can't just leave him here. There's no knowing what might happen to him. London's such a big place when you've nowhere to go. Can't he come and stay with us for a few days?'


Last Sunday was SecondBorn's ninth birthday party.  We and the small boy guests had been to the cinema. We were ferrying them home for a play and some party food. 

It takes a while to make and assemble party food in Kenya. Rice krispie cakes, icing biscuits and logistics had been preoccupying me for much of the weekend.

'Aunty, aunty' a small voice called as we walked to the car.  We'd spent this Christmas with our toddler niece and nephew, the first to call me aunty since my South Wales childhood when it was heard all around.  'Aunty, aunty.' 

A small boy, aged maybe ten, barefoot was following us. He was an orphan he said. Showed a sponsorship form letter saying he was collecting for school uniform, so he could join his class, go to school.  One minute you're supervising privileged children in a film, the next you're brought up short by the daily realities for children the age of your son. 

I did give, generously, though I don't always.  Wished him well. Told him that I was proud of him for wanting to continue with school despite the difficulties.  But days later he's still in my head. Because giving money when children, half a mile from my home, are living without supervision on the street, is to give very little.

Tonight I was rereading A Bear Called Paddington with Firstborn. We'd last read it three years ago in UK. At that time it felt like a warmhearted comedy with happy ending. The penniless stowaway bear is taken in by a goodhearted family, loose ends are tied up, all's well with the world.  But today I howled. Here we're in a different reality. It's so clear all isn't well with the world. Some boys get birthday parties, others, orphans, beg for the clothes to get a chance to go to school.  And adults stop, share a moment, give a little, and walk on by.