There is a meta-level to the Shrewsday household, one which ticks over with its own internal politics. A whole group of characters you will only have met fleetingly, if at all.

And yet should one of these characters disappear, the consequences would be severe indeed.

They are, in no particular order: Pantomime bear: Zed the zebra: Lulu the owl: and Bumpy the elephant: our cuddly toys.

When the children were very young, the supermarket was an escape. I could jump in the car, late in the evening, when everyone was in bed, leave Phil with the kids and glide, dazed, around the aisles without a great deal of focus.

It was just very nice not to be looking after children. I was sleep deprived, shabby and unco-ordinated, but I was free, for a few consumer-driven minutes.

One day I was drifting past the baby section, and there he was: an impossibly soft elephant type designed as both toy and comfort blanket.

Home came the elephant to the hands of a tiny boy, and the strong bond between Felix and elephants was born.

Of course it got dirty, and needed a good wash on a nice regular basis.  About the third wash I used the wrong setting, and the stuffing settled into lumps inside. But did my son mind? No: he just called him Bumpy.

I will have to draw a veil over what happened when Felix was taken in his pushchair over the bridge across a  lake, and dropped Bumpy over the side into its murky depths.

As far as he is concerned, we called the council and had the lake dredged, recovered Bumpy, gave him a good wash and all was well.

I’ll say no more.

They provide very real comfort for my children, these little objects. And just occasionally, these soft talismans give comfort to the odd adult.

Lord Sebastian Flyte took a teddy bear everywhere with him, and his name was Aloisius. He was modelled on the bear belonging to John Betjeman, who was a great friend of Brideshead author Evelyn Waugh at Oxford.

Aloisius could be seen as a symbol of Sebastian’s steadfast refusal to grow up and face the painful responsibilities of adulthood.

Ironic, then, that the teddy bear who played Aloysius in the acclaimed 1981 adaptation is now more than 100 years old.

Our bear started his life with the American Toy Company in 1907. For 40 years, he lived very quietly in a Maine chemist’s shop, with his illustrious owner, Euphemia Ladd.

Dr Strangelove fans will recall the Russian Ambassador, played by English actor Peter Bull. In 1969, he wrote a book called Bear With Me, all about his passion for teddy bears.

Euphemia watched a television article about it. It so happened she was closing her shop, and her teddy needed a home. These beloved toys: they need an owner who will appreciate them. She packed him up and sent him to Bull, with whom he stayed happily for ten years.

It was only when Brideshead director Derek Granger was looking for “a large and rumpled bear” that Bull was able to step in and help.

Ewan Fletcher of the Daily Mail produced an affectionate biography of the time-honoured teddy in 2007.

He quotes Granger on Aloysius: “He was marvellous. He was never late on set, he never bumped into other actors and was never drunk. Actually he continued to work when he was quite ill.”

“At one stage during the 21 months of filming he bled a little straw and had to be rushed to hospital. Not the first time an actor has come apart at the seams,” he added.

Even a great director can’t help but be affectionate towards a toy.

One story sticks in my mind, though, because the doll in question actually rescues her heroine.

It is East European and dark and it has talons, this tale, as so many from that part of the world do.

The doll is called Kookolka, and she is the most precious thing Vassia’s mother gives her before she dies.

Like the Cinderella story in many ways, her father marries a fearful, cruel second wife. And yes, the wife has two fearful, cruel daughters. Life in Vassia’s household is grim and joyless.

The two sisters hate her and hatch a plot to rid themselves of her forever. All the candles are out and there is no fire left in the house; they resolve to send her to borrow a flame from Baba Yaga.

A nightmare, this hag from the steppes: she scuttles, spider like, through Russian tales, creating night terrors across a vast land at her very mention.

For Baba Yaga is a cannibalistic witch, and she eats children. Her garden fence is made of bones,  and her roof is thatched with human hair. In place of door bolts she has fixed two human hands, and instead of the latch is a snarling mouth full of teeth.

And it doesn’t stop there. Her house is mobile in the very worst sense of the word, crouching on bony chicken’s legs: and the witch is said to fly around in a mortar, holding a pestle with which to cudgel her prey.

Kookolka is the doll every mother would like to leave behind, to guard her daughter. She urges her little charge to undertake what seems like a suicidal risk. You never know, she adds, what good may come of a visit to Baba Yaga.

Every impossible task that Vassy is set by the hag, Kookolka takes care of. And gradually Vassy’s sweet nature charms the witch.

Finally Vassy has a staunch ally. She is sent back home with the flame, and it is only in Russia that a happy ending would entail her family home, complete with stepmother and two sisters, burning to the ground. Hurrah.

The girl returns to Granny Yaga, but finds instead a normal house, where she is invited to lodge with the little old lady who lives there. She becomes a lace maker and her work is of such quality that the Tsar himself asks to see her.

It is only one step from seeing, to falling in love, and she and the Tsar are soon married.

Toys are such comforts, they even form a meta-layer in our stories. They are so useful as alter-egos, listeners and even protectors.

Most adults, when pushed, will admit they still own one. I wonder why?