I have a pink ball.

It’s my favourite thing in the world. There I’ve said it, I’m not proud of it but there it is. It’s not even pink; it’s actually purple on one side and orange on the other, but for some reason (probably due to the brain’s psychological response to colour opponency… but hey, what do I know?) everyone says it’s pink.

I’ve had teddies and rattles and light-up toys and things that glow in the dark and chew toys and bead runs and wooden trains and squishy things and rainmaker tubes and goodness knows what else, but while they’re fun for a few days the novelty soon wears off and I always come back to my Pink Ball.

I’ve probably had it since I was about two years old – I think it originally came as part of a TOMY set and I sometimes see one or two of the others knocking about but it’s only the pink one that does it for me.

I can’t explain the attachment, it isn’t based on a sentimental nostalgia for my childhood and it doesn’t remind me of my mother. Pink Ball is about 4cm in diameter and made of a rigid plastic, which is comforting to chew on and has the advantage of not deteriorating, but doesn’t particularly taste of anything. It looks and feels nice but it’s hardly an aesthetic masterpiece. It’s just the right size for my hand, but that’s irrational as my hands have grown considerably over the years. It makes a nice clickety-click plastic noise when it bounces, but you wouldn’t exactly describe that as music to stir the soul. It fits in and out of plastic cups and ball tubes in a really satisfying way but none of this can explain my emotional bond.

One of my ‘companions’ took me on a day trip to a Theme Park a few years ago. I was going through one of my Pink Ball obsessions at the time and Frowny gave her strict instructions not to lose it. We took a ride on the steam train but as soon as we were underway I thought I’d test her resolve by throwing the ball out of the window – I just can’t help myself sometimes – and this poor girl, possibly in fear of Frowny’s wrath, made the guard hold up the next departure while she and an engineer walked the length of the track in search of the ball. Now that’s devotion to duty.

Sometimes it goes missing for days, weeks or months at a time. It rolls under a cupboard or behind the TV or gets lost at the bottom of the toy basket and lies there. Waiting. Pink ball is, above all, patient. I usually turn the house upside down for a day or two in futile search but then move on; there’s an old quote that goes something along the lines of: If you love somebody, let them go. If they return, they were always yours. If they don’t, they never were.

And Pink Ball always comes back.

Today it’s looking a bit battered. There’s a crack on one side and part of it is starting to cave in (the legacy of a few too many trips down the stairs) but I still love it. I don’t know how much longer it will last.

Or what I will do when it’s gone.