Hamilton

Hamilton arrived long after our bear family had been established and looked ready to stay the same. But, in autumn, rows and rows of fluffy white teddy bears appeared in our local supermarket. They were adorable, with sweet feet. Every week, I thought how lovely they were, and every week I resolutely walked past them, because, though money wasn't as tight as it had been, a new bear was a treat too far.

That was until the week after Christmas. The remaining bears were all very special bears because they were all on special offer. How could I resist? But no two bears are truly identical, not in personality. The bear for me was half hidden behind the coffee jars, waiting for me and not letting anyone else pick him up. We bought him, carried him home in triumph, hugged him a lot, and named him Hamilton, which was something to do with a serial I'd just had published.

That night, as we wondered whose bedroom Hamilton would end up in, he sat on the floor and explained that he didn't want to be an upstairs bear. He was a downstairs bear, and wanted to be at the heart of the family. He was so sure of it that even though I had misgivings I let him stay in an armchair all night.

Hamilton was right. He belongs at the heart of the family and in the middle of what's going on. He has sweet feet, attitude, and opinions and looks after us all, and we believe he flies around the room when nobody's watching. From the first, we knew Hamilton was remarkable, but we didn't know the half of it. More to come.