I always dreaded the stench of the car park in the roll-on roll-off ferry we took to Denmark each summer. One year I prepared by pressing my soft polar bear, Nanok, over my nose and mouth, restricting my breathing. All I could smell was the comfort of familiar material; my bear with his arms around my face. As I crossed the car park the lorries rose up to the height of sky scrapers and I dropped Nanok into a puddle of petrol.
Today he is as white as the safety of childhood. My mother must have washed him.