“BEAR!” growled Mr Curry, leaning over the garden fence. “Bear!”

To hear this to its full effect, you have to imagine it in my Dad’s Brummy burr as the pair of us sat on the sofa reading together while mum washed up (Dad definitely nabbed the best end of that deal).

Together we went to the Tour de France, sat on Mr Gruber’s horsehair sofa in his Portobello Road antiques shop, sharing our problems (“a problem shared is a problem halved,” said Mr Gruber), watched as Judy and Jonathan exchanged glances, ruined a perfect good kitchen table and enjoyed our fair share of marmalade sandwiches.

Yes, I’m not the first person this past week to pay tribute to Paddington Bear creator Michael Bond, who has died at the age of 91.

But his small, accident-prone bear from Peru was such an important part of my childhood, it’d be wrong to let him pass without adding a few words of my own.

I know some of you out there think I’m a dreadful lefty liberal. Some of you have even written to our letters page complaining that I shouldn’t write in support of our Muslim brethren or the homeless people in the Lawns or the refugees who arrive, alone and scared in our country.

And I have asked myself why there are so many racist, bigoted people out there and how come I didn’t turn out to be one of them.

And, strange though it may seem, I reckon this answer is this: Paddington Bear taught me to think differently.

After Dad had read the whole series to me, voices and all, and I was old enough to read them myself, I did so, religiously, every night under the covers with a torch. Several times over.

And if you’ve ever read Paddington Bear, you’ll know what kind books they are.

After all, in 1958 Mr and Mrs Brown came across a scruffy little bear from Peru sitting, homeless and penniless, in Paddington Station.

They didn’t turn away, they didn’t hurl insults at him — they took him home to 32, Windsor Gardens and made him part of their family.

He went on to enrich their lives, admittedly with plentiful mishaps, scrapes and a fair few hard stares along the way.

The books were inspired in part by the refugee children of the Second World War, turning up terrified in Britain to be taken to new, safer homes with complete strangers.

“Footage of elderly people pushing prams with all their belongings in them. Refugees are the saddest sight; I still think that,” Michael Bond said in 2014.

He couldn’t have known that his stories would be just as pertinent almost 60 years later when once again, for different reasons, we are being asked to open our borders and our hearts to those from far away who need our help.

Paddington has become such a symbol of good foreign relations that in 1994, the item the English tunnellers chose to pass through the Channel Tunnel to their French counterparts when the two sides linked up was a Paddington Bear stuffed toy.

And I believe Paddington would give us all one of his hardest stares if he knew the selfishness and hatred with which some of us have reacted to the current refugee crisis.

No doubt, he would also be extremely pleased with those kind people who have gone out of their way to help those in need.

I think we should all go back and re-read Michael Bond’s glorious books and take a little of their philosophy into their hearts. Maybe his legacy can do our country some good. Paddington, I’m sure, would like to think so. After all, as Mr Bond himself said: “He was a hopeful bear at heart.”

It’s wheely daft

I NOTE that scribbled hastily on the goatskin parchment for last month’s Queen’s Speech was the decision to permit the development of driverless cars.
Glad to see this high on our list of priorities. 
What with the eye-wateringly uncomfortable Brexit negotiations ahead, the Bible bashing haters of human rights that are propping up the government, the continuing struggle against terrorism, the gruelling austerity measures and all round misery which seems to be hanging like a big black political cloud over our country at the moment, I’d have thought cars that drive themselves would be so near the bottom of the to do list that it might not even make it on there. 
And there was me thinking we were going to hell in a handcart. Turns out we’re going in a driverless car.
 

Give thief his just desserts

IN less than two and a half years, Shane Griffiths will be out of prison and getting used to living a normal life again.
I hope he finds normal life to be bitterly disappointing. I hope he finds people cross the street to avoid him and those who considered him a friend treat him with the contempt he deserves.
Griffiths has been jailed for theft. Now we all know theft is wrong. But some forms of theft are more wrong than others.
There’s nicking an extra toothpick from the fancy Japanese restaurant. I doubt they’re crying into their sake over it.
There’s swiping a biro from the office stationery cupboard (not that I ever would) and finding it’s ended up on the coffee table at home never to leave again.
 There’s pinching a few extra serviettes at the service station to keep in the car just in case you need them for some unfathomable reason.
And then there’s systematically stealing £64,000 from a vulnerable neighbour by plundering her accounts online and forcing her to remortgage her house, leaving her fighting off the debt collectors. All in the space of a year.
Griffiths’ spending sprees included £6,000 on CCTV cameras for his home, a 10-plate BMW, fancy jewellery and a £19,000 holiday.
Meanwhile, his neighbour faces losing her home.
I would like to suggest a broader, societal approach to cases like this.
The neighbour is unlikely to see any of her money again. She won’t be able to afford flash cars or posh holidays.
Therefore it would be fair, if on his release from prison, Griffiths were unlikely to see any of the luxuries he so obviously craves again.
Perhaps all posh car manufacturers could refuse to sell to him.
Perhaps the government could refuse him a passport so he will never enjoy another luxury holiday. And perhaps no one will ever want to live next door to him.