I don’t remember Hot Cross Buns as a catalogue of symptoms for dementia, but we never got past the first verse. Apparently subsequent verses detailed the descent into madness by fever-faced Mr. Pattern as he flees a bistro table, a steamship, a rhomboid, a device that’s either an adding machine from a society that uses Base Four or a typewriter invented by the American Vowel Promotion League (“The  Only Thing Missing – is U!”) and a drunken carpenter who’s trying to straighten a bent nail with a hand axe. But they are nothing, compared to the buns. How they haunt him, the buns! How horribly they waddle off the plate and come after him, their fulsome yeasty Crusader-emblazoned buttocks tantalizing him with the forbidding X!

Again, imagine the scene: a manager in charge of approving art for two-to-four year olds looked at this, and said “Great, sure. That’s perfect.”