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My favourite cartoon character was (still is) Winnie the Pooh. Thanks to paraphernalia nestling about my house, this I am reminded of everyday. Not that I need reminding. Pooh is genuinely unforgettable, with an irresistibility about as unequivocal as my inability to locate apt superlatives here appears. Blessed with a ludicrous-sounding (and connoting) name, Pooh is loveable because he is adorably funny. I recall with fondness the quizzical expressions of bewilderment or uncertainty that lent themselves easily to his unassuming countenance. Pooh seemed perplexed by issues often mundane and ordinary, but amid the confusion it was always heartwarming and touching to learn that these apparently-straightforward problems belied their weighty origins in Pooh's noble attempts at reconciling the divergent interests of his friends. The fantastical world of different animals (and Christopher Robin) relating to one another in their tranquil existence within the trenchant wholeness of the cookie-cutter perfect stories provided the fitting backdrop validating the escapist assumption that all problems would work their ways to a natural and pleasant conclusion. The inevitable eventual resolution of Pooh's problems hence tinted my appreciation with an optimistic certainty, freeing me to savour the humour and adorability of Pooh's character. At an untender 18 I am hard-pressed to remember the specifics of Pooh's troubles and adventures as worldlier currents sweep me along. Nevertheless Pooh's liking for a modest pot of honey never fails to remind me of the simplicity with which enjoyment and satisfaction should come. That said though, one can only hope that, as in our fictional and fantastical worlds, such pure and untainted fulfilment, immense in its simplicity, would visit us more than just once in that blue moon.