The Imaginary Friend Who Came Back From The Dead

I need to talk about Bob again. Bob is the Major’s imaginary friend who breezed into our lives a few months ago. He proceeded to outdo me at every opportunity, turning the Major’s head with his carefree attitude and generosity. Bob was clearly a man of means, there were offers of steak and laptops and pretty much anything that I wouldn’t provide for my son. The Major asked me if we could build a den in the back of our car. I told him that the car wasn’t big enough. Bob’s car was big enough.

We never met Bob even though we invited him to the house on several occasions. Bob moved into a home up the road (and down the road and up a mountain). He opened up a shop selling ‘daddy magazines’. At one point the Major demanded that we go out and find Bob. We headed to the local park where I identified an elderly man with a trolley as Bob. The Major explained that the man wasn’t Bob and threw a strop when I refused to continue our search for Bob in the car. I quickly grew to despise Bob.

So when the Major announced that Bob had in fact died I had to try very hard to suppress an air-punch. The details of Bob’s death are gruesome. It happened at the Sea Life Centre in Brighton where it seems a shark somehow escaped from his tank and bit Bob’s head off. The Major and Bob’s wife Sheila tried in vain to rescue Bob by yanking him from the shark’s jaws.

But Bob is back. Back from the dead. It should have struck me at the time that something didn’t ring true about the shark story, especially when holes began to appear in it. The Major later revealed that Bob’s head had not been removed by a shark after all. It was Kung Fu Panda.

The prodigal Bob has returned and has moved into a new home. This home is built from cakes and sweets and phones – all partially contraband items in our household. I’ve pictured a sort of modernist Hansel-and-Gretel house, an Apple store made of Wham Bars and banana bread.

It is probably senseless to search for reason in the chaotic workings of the Major’s mind, and attempt to rationalise Bob’s various states of dead and undead. I’ve speculated that Bob is less an imaginary friend and more an imaginary government inspector working for a regulatory service – Ofdad perhaps. So if the Major thinks that my standards as a father are not being maintained then Bob is drafted in as an improved dad-figure. Bob provides competition, motivating me to raise my game if I’m not supplying enough sweets or cakes or I’m not allowing the Major to play with my phone enough.

As always I may be overthinking this, but if this is the case then we may need to plan another trip to Brighton. And quickly.



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My Son Has An Imaginary Friend And I Don’t Like Him One Bit

My three-year-old son (referred to here as Major) has an imaginary friend. His name is Bob. There’s nothing unusual in this – we’ve researched it and apparently around a third of all children have an imaginary friend at some point. It’s a sign of their creativity obviously. I didn’t have an imaginary friend (none of them liked me) but my vision of one is someone or thing who might need a place setting for dinner or an extra pot of Play-doh provided or a pillow on the bedroom floor for a sleepover. Bob however is an imaginary friend in absentia. We’ve never been made aware of his presence in the house, he is always only mentioned in dispatches. We’ve invited him over several times but he always has tummy-ache.

Bob is also 23. He lets Major sit on his lap and they watch cartoons on his computer together.

Again I’ve looked on the internet and dreaming up a grown-up imaginary friend is entirely normal. However I felt the need to delve a little further into Bob, just in case he turned out to be real and a creepy caretaker at his nursery or something.

The Major has described Bob as a work friend. Bob’s dad is also called Bob and his mum is called Sheila. He has a brother, Bob, and a sister, Bobbie. Bob is also married. His wife is called Sheila. He has twin babies, Gom and LaLa. Bob’s specialty in the kitchen is chicken dishes: strawberry chicken, blueberry chicken and most exotically pencil chicken. Bob also does a mean jelly stew. Bob looks like a brown dog and he feeds eggs to chickens. The more I learnt about Bob the less I liked him. I mean, he feeds eggs to chickens. Although I am at least now satisfied he only resides in the Major’s increasingly eccentric head.

Bob gets snuggles where I don’t. He seems to be a better version of me, more fun, more liberal, more snuggly. Now I just feel resentment towards Bob although of course I can see the funny side to all this, as funny as your child having an imaginary paedophile can be.

This is Bob. I think.
This is Bob. I think.

Last night wasn’t especially funny however. Just before bedtime Major announced that Bob was coming over for a party, in fact he was four minutes away in his car. Major and Bob were planning to go up to the spare room on the top floor of our house and play games, dance and eat steaks together. Understandably Major was reluctant to get into bed with such an exciting night of festivities in prospect. I’ve often found on occasions such as this that parental strategy is devised on the hoof and that tactics can change several times in the course of a few minutes.

Firstly I let him that know Bob unfortunately was unable to get a babysitter for Gom and LaLa (perhaps Sheila was at Zumba or something). This news was met with tears. Not over-tired tears, but big wet tears of genuine sadness. I then tried to explain gently that of course Bob wasn’t real, we made him up like we do with some of our stories. Sad, dramatic tears the size of orange pips rolled down his face.

Finally I suggested that perhaps he should have a power-nap (a snoozle-woozle in his terms) to prepare for the party and that his mother would come and wake him up when Bob arrived. This seemed to pacify him for a while but the continuing exhilaration at the thought of the impending Bob prevented him from settling down for another two hours.

Eventually his mum came up to find out what was happening, which allowed me to go and eat my tea (pencil chicken with HB sauce – hmm delish). As I walked downstairs, violent bawling ensued as Major evidently discovered that his mother hadn’t arrived to tell him Bob was here. Eventually fatigue gripped his little frame and he went to sleep.

Last night’s incident is archetypal of the bittersweet parental experience – that tears of sadness or laughter or both are never far away. As ever my wife and I are planning just to ignore the problem, to play Bob down until he goes away. We’ll probably just refer to him in Major’s presence like we do with all taboo subjects: by spelling his name. Although when I think about it, that tactic might have the side-effect of the Major sparking up an imaginary relationship with demented hip-hop artist and flat-earther B.o.B.

At least I’d be less jealous of him than Bob.


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