After the success of the first puppet, I commissioned another — one designed to work alongside it.
Once a year, Larry would bring his wife down to London. They stayed at a hotel just off the Strand and did the usual sightseeing. She loved Harrods at Christmas, especially the decorations and window displays.
When I got the call, I booked the day off work.
This time, he never sent a single progress photo. Not one. For over a year. Whenever I checked in, I was told it was being worked on. That was it.
We met in the hotel lobby and took the lift up to the fourth floor. It felt oddly clandestine — like a drug deal. When the doors opened, his wife was standing there. We exchanged brief introductions and headed into the room.
As we entered, he apologised for the smell. His wife had just used the toilet. She’d eaten something “funky” the night before.
On the bed was a long parcel wrapped in layers of bubble wrap. He started unwrapping it. Inside was a brown-haired puppet.
Money was exchanged.
Afterwards, we went for a drink in a nearby bar.
The conversation started with puppets. It didn’t end there.
He told me about nudist beaches. Swinger parties. How some husbands liked to watch him sleep with their wives.
I remember thinking that, for a man in his early seventies, he seemed to be having a very full social life.