It’s been puppet time again this week, things didn’t go as planed, so the sowing machine, pins and needles came out. I’m not entirely sure if it’s not a form of self harm, I can probably play catch with a cactus and have less holes in my hands.
But the puppet has now got its character starting to show, those that follow my Facebook page will have seen the photos, and I now have to go shopping for an outfit to match.
With this being my second puppet, and of a different design, mistakes are present. However, he is turning out alright, next time it will be worth travelling out further afield to get supplies. As there will be more made. Puppets are escaping my subconscious, vying for my attention, one in particular would not let me see her face for hours after staring at the materials I had bought to build her, I just knew the parts had to be got at the time.
But I know why I have an affinity with them.
It’s not due to a love of Sesamea st, the Muppets, or even Finger mouse, and even though I was a fan of Basil Brush and Hartley’s house none are connected.
It was a glove puppet named pipa, named after a polar bear named Pipaluk who was the second successfully reared polar bear at London zoo at that time (1969).
My pipa was brown not white, and the material in the head was rather hard and scratchy, not a plush toy by any means. And it was not because it was made by Mum that made it special.
No, it was that no matter how bad the bullying was, in school or out, no matter how much hurt was inflicted from the taunts, the rejection, not fitting in, or not being myself – trying to fit in, the shame of being singled out in class by teachers, no matter how crummy the day. I could go back home and pipa would be there to listen.
If the feelings we’re overpoweing, we would hide under the bed covers as we whispered, fearing the power the words could have if they were picked up by the wrong person. Hiding in the makeshift cave, not daring to breath, lest the monster on the outside would hear, and we would have no escape, nowhere to run. Pipa all too often went to sleep wet with tears.
So no, I am hypnotic surprised they are “talking” to me now.