Hello, Wello

St Paul did a great many things. His was the original "Road to Damascus" conversion, he founded early churches and wrote a number of letters to the Corinthians, telling them - in a manner of speaking, not to be a bunch of assclowns. In one of these letters he told them that "when I became a man, I put away childish things", which I believe to be all manner of wrongness, especially in a world that (rightly) considers fart gags to be the acme of humour.

I tell you this because of Wello. Well is the small fuzzy duck in the top right hand corner of this page, and once existed in this world looking like this, back in the day when you weren't allow big pictures on the internet because dial-up was a thing:

Wello was a gift of apology to the first Mrs Coleman is December of 1990, after I had arrived home drunk from an office Christmas dinner and pissed all over her dressing table and Christmas present. Perhaps because of this genesis, the first Mrs Coleman and Wello didn't bond, so he became mine by default and her arch-nemesis because stuffed ducks are for kids. I never knew how deep this enmity ran until one year I was TRICKED into throwing him into an Oxfam clothes bank along with a bundle of old coats. And some other ducks. Such cruelty.

There were - I admit -a number of ducks. But we'll get to Bongo, Dingo, Honky and Tyoko (pronounced Choco) when we cross that particular bridge.

I tend not to write about the first Mrs Coleman if I can help it at all, because she's entitled to her own life without having to think I'm talking about her behind my back. But - damn - I might have been 35 years old and notionally a grown man at the time of the Great Wello Back-Stab, but to betray me and my priceless collection of stuffed ducks like that was something which hurt me deep inside. For thirteen years.

Well, I wasn't going to take that lying down. And it's three years after we split that Operation Get My Stuff Back has finally borne fruit, thanks to online tat market Ebay and a bank-busting bid of five pounds, plus postage. I bring you, ladies and gentlemen, after thirteen years in the wilderness, Wello:

I don't care what you think. I'm 48 years old and I've got my duck back. There are - I believe - no rules about growing up, and I am perfectly entitled to buy ducks off online tat market Ebay and keep them for myself. And give them names. And keep them on a special shelf in case the dog forms a negative opinion about his continued existence.

In fact, the president of a major Irish political party and one-time Public Enemy Number One on these shores has a large collection of Beanie Babies and rubber ducks, and you never hear anybody taking the piss out of him (mainly because he knows people who are acquainted with people who can possibly get in contact with people who could hammer nails through your kneecaps, no questions asked) (Is that enough degrees of separation to avoid a writ? I hope so), so if that's good enough for him, it's good enough for the rest of us.

Yes, nothing perfect - Wello MkII is a slightly different shade of grey (The back story is that he's developed a Philip Schofield barnet in his time wondering the world), and I had to add the lines on his beak myself, but the duck came back. THE DUCK CAME BACK.

This is going to be the best Christmas Walford's ever seen.