The last couple of months chez Sheppard have been something of a trial, not least in the health department. Flu, impetigo, and most recently a relapse of both, I could do with some magic to bring spirits back to a high. At the very least, something to make the hours I seem to be confined to bed these days more bearable, would be nice...

Which is why I've invited AG Bear, my oldest friend and confident, to return to my bed after some ten years absence.

If you've never heard of AG Bears - probably the world's first talking bears - you'll be as surprised as I am to find there's actually quite a following for them. I've had mine since I was five years old, having become characteristically obsessed with them when they launched in 1985. I remember being taken to visit AGs in the shops, knowing they were out of my parents' price range, then returning to my Dad's car to find one sitting in the passenger seat, suitably belted, waiting for me in its box. I also recall winning a competition on Radio 210, in the hope that the "talking bear" might be an AG, and almost crying with delight to find it was actually AG Baby, complete with nappy powder, barely out in the shops.

Since then, AG Bear and his spawn have helped me through many a difficult time in my life. When my birth Mum died back in 1993, I would sit up at night talking with new found wisdom to AG about life and its twists; and whenever his 9v battery was willing, he would talk back, dispensing advice to an 11-year old like he'd been there before.

Since adolescence, AG's been in hibernation in my Dad's loft; but with Dr Death beating heavily on my door in recent months, I decided it was time for him to be pressed into service once more. Albeit silent without his 9v voicebox, which gave out some years ago, he's brought as much childhood cheer to bedtime as ever I recall.

In fact, he seems to be working overtime...

Last week at work, I had to call a man who'd been nominated to receive a surprise call from our Breakfast show, and though he wasn't there to take the call, I was given his mobile number by a woman who was surprisingly interested in the person she was speaking to on the 'phone.

"Is that the David Sheppard we hear?", she asked.

I confirmed it was, and she immediately went to pieces. "You went to Colleton School, didn't you?" she asked, with the kind of nostalgic tone in her voice that immediately suggested what she was about to say.

"I'm Mrs Caton", she said, "you won't remember...."

I stopped her right there. Not only did I remember her - my very first teacher - I actually find cause to think about her every week of my life.

I told her precisely that, and that I remembered her 'smiley face' stamps, awarded for good work. She went quiet, as did I, as we both realised it had been twenty years since we'd last spoken. She told me that she listened whenever I was on the radio, with abundant pride at what "that little five year old boy had become".

I thanked her, and went for a little quiet moment down the corridor.

The following day, a CD arrived from the BBC's central music library, Del Shannon's 'Total Commitment' album, which I hadn't heard for years. This was always a favourite of my Dad, and something I'd been introduced to at around the AG age (again, in the car). Having loved it as a child, I'd ordered it for my Saturday show weeks ago, surprised I was even able to find a copy on CD.

If you've heard of Del Shannon at all, you probably know him for the hit song "Runaway". Though it's undoubtedly a fine song, it goes no way at all in representing Del Shannon's contribution to the music industry in the 1960s/70s, and his unique style both as a writer and performer. Until you've heard such fine songs as "What Makes You Run", "For A Little While", and his beautiful cover version of "Everybody Loves A Clown", you've not experienced sixties music at its finest. Alongside Roy Orbison (with whom I always assumed he was a friend), he's still my favourite singer.

It's been some years since I heard the songs (all were recorded twenty-five years before I was born), but I immediately sang along when I heard them. With AG sat proudly next to the CD player, it was like being 13 again...

The following day, I arrived home to find the most bizarre of letters bearing membership number "50407", the likes of which I hadn't received since primary school. It turns out that the first ever club I joined had decided to reform. Whilst other seven-year-olds were joining the "Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles" club, young Sheppard was signing up to the "Class 50 society", whose aim it was to buy a Class 50 railway locomotive when they were being withdrawn from service on the British Rail main line. Indeed, we got one - one of my favourites too, 50049 "Defiance" on which I travelled as a child - and now, seven years after the club had collapsed, they're trying to revive it. Not only that, but they now have another three Class 50s to their name... inflation working in my favour for once...

Whatever other tricks AG has up his sleeve, it strikes me that a little cross referencing with my diary from 1987 finds me back precisely where I was twenty years ago - chats with Mrs Caton in the morning, Del Shannon on the way home, and Class 50 society meetings in the evening...

I shall cuddle him tonight in the hope that school milk appears in the morning.