This is Pongo. He’s known as An Ugly in pottery terms. I named him Pongo when I was a child and for much of my life, he was a doorstop. He went with us to a succession of houses and one of the signs of home for me was Pongo by the front door. When my parents died, I knew I had to have Pongo come live with me. He is honourably retired from his doorkeeping duties in deference to his age and sits on my windowsill, his droopy eyelids gazing benignly at me. The green of his bow is a little faded but that makes not a jot of difference to me. Pongo is home. He endures.