All he is these days is a very tattered leg. A bit of cloth, really. But he’s still in my house, tucked away to preserve what’s left of him.

As a baby I was given a stuffed sheep toy that was duly named Lamb Chops. No one has ever taken responsibility for this name, although it lends a certain macabre poignancy to the fact that all that is left of him now is a leg. A threadbare and, honestly, deeply aesthetically off-putting leg that I am horrified to display, yet can’t quite bring myself to throw away.

I wasn’t into stuffed animals as a child; it was books I was obsessed with, even when I was tiny. I kept a library of books at the bottom of my bed, and used my tiny plastic tricycle as a mobile library which I’d cycle round and round the house in, pausing every once in a while to choose a picture book from my basket.

But Lamb Chops (Lamby for short) was different, and ever-present, and I was an enthusiastic and dedicated “snucker”. (“Snucking” is an invented family word for the distinct and bizarre way I used to suck my thumb while simultaneously stroking Lamb Chops with the fingers on the same hand.)

When my snucking level threw Lamb Chops into a state of disrepair, I was presented with another sheep toy – this time christened Mint Sauce (really). But I had no time or love for Mint Sauce, who is still in pristine condition at my parents’ house, or possibly at a charity shop by now.

Who knows why I connected with Lamb Chops so much as a child, but I do know why I’m so reticent to get rid of his last remaining fibres – and perhaps it is even subconsciously all rooted in the same thing.

Why it’s still okay to have a cuddly toy – even as an adult