I hate the singing bus.

“Let’s go to the school…” it sings in an American accent when you press a button. “A for apple. B for Bee, Buzz Buzz.” This is annoying enough, but my children don’t use the singing bus in the way the designers intended.

“A, A, A, A, Let’s, Let’s, Let’s, B, B, B, A, A, Let’s, Let’s…” It gibbers as they mash the buttons. It’s like the worst hip-hop record ever made.

The singing bus is clearly a terrible, terrible thing, and yet, illogically, I’m not allowed to smash it into little pieces with a hammer.

There is a toy that makes no sound what so ever. It doesn’t talk or sing or beep or parp. It doesn’t flash or glow or vibrate. It’s doesn’t require batteries. If you want to you can smash it into little pieces. In fact, this is actively encouraged. So that you can start building again.

I felt a tinge of sadness as we emptied the big box of lego from ebay onto the floor. I finally gave up my own stash a few years ago. I wont tell you how old I was, but the wound is still tender.

I was immediately lost in lego time. I began creating a kind of sci-fi Eiffel tower with a spaceship landing pad. It was all coming back to me, all the old skills. My hands moved with astonishing speed.

“That’s great son.” I nodded at his robot, but I couldn’t really look. I was at a critical stage. I had to find a key piece to balance the cantilever or the entire upper spire would be in danger of collapse. Just in time I broke up a shapeless lump of bricks and found the piece I needed.

My son started crying softly.

“Look at Daddies tower.” I grinned, admiring the beauty. I looked for his robot. It was in pieces. I realised I had broken it up for parts.

“Oh. Sorry son.” I said. His revenge on my tower was swift and brutal.