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Since my father died, something has been wrong with my son. At least, I hope it's something wrong with him
Schleich, the German company that mostly manufactures plastic animals—horses, goats, pigs, ostriches—also makes a ghost. It stands about three inches tall, is white-painted, besheeted, drags behind it a black-painted ball and chain. The two implied hands are raised to head level, and its mouth is open in the silent whooo of a wail.
My son, Jim, saw it in the local toy shop, wanted it and got it—I was, I’ll admit, the parent who gave in.
Jim held the ghost all the way home, with me pushing him in the McLaren buggy. We went through the park. It was autumn,…