Chapter 1 - Pigs might fly
Tim took a deep breath and summoned as much bravado as he could muster. "What's the budget?" he asked. Gillian raised one eyebrow. "£50,000," she announced.

Tim took a deep breath and summoned as much bravado as he could muster.
"What's the budget?" he asked.
Gillian raised one eyebrow.
"£50,000," she announced, "I know it isn't a lot to work with."
Tim didn't flinch. He had no idea how much it normally cost to create an exhibition in a national museum, but this amount far exceeded anything he had envisaged.
"That sounds doable," he said, in what he hoped was a level, unflappable tone.
Gillian proffered her hand, smiled warmly, and shook Tim's hand.
"You'll need to present your ideas to the directors," she warned, "but I can't see them putting up any objections. Let's talk soon."
Tim Hunkin was an enthusiastic engineer with a particular penchant for taking things to bits and putting them back together again. He had a passion for the mundane and utilitarian machinery that you find in every home or office, from the small and humble iron, to the large but indispensable photocopier. He also had a keen sense of humour, which was well honed from his years working as a cartoonist at the Observer. His quirky imagination was responsible for gems such as the flying pigs and sheep which promoted Pink Floyd's 'Animals' album, and led to the creation of a science documentary called 'Why Things go Wrong', in 1982. This break into television had opened the door to three series for Channel 4, two entitled 'The Secret Life of Machines', and one 'The Secret Life of the Office'. These programmes were brought to life with a plethora of Tim's clever stunts and Heath Robinson-esque inventions, including a human sewing machine and a ballet of self-propelled portable radios.
During this period Tim had nurtured relationships with several museums, including the National Science Museum in Kensington. In 1987 he installed some of his novel animatronic collecting boxes there, to encourage visitors to make voluntary donations to the museum. Thanks to this work, and his increasingly public persona, by 1993 he was firmly on the radar of the newly appointed assistant director, Gillian Thomas. He had been installing a small display at the Science Museum to promote his latest television series, when Gillian had asked to see him for a little chat.
"We're developing a new education centre, Tim," she explained, "and I wondered whether it's something you might like to get involved with?"
Tim was dumbstruck for a moment. Flattering though it was, he simply couldn't see himself working on something quite as lifeless as an education centre. Gillian filled his pregnant pause.
"The centre was really quite ambitious as it was originally conceived, but it's the old story, I'm afraid, the budget has been cut."
"It's still going ahead, though?"
"It is, yes, but it'll only be half the size we thought."
The project was sounding less inspiring by the moment, but on the point of thanking Gillian for thinking of him and making his excuses, she mentioned something which entirely turned the tables.
"Of course, this means we'll be refurbishing a couple of the old galleries."
Tim's interest was immediately piqued.
"The ones which were going to be gutted to make space for the education centre?" he asked.
"Yes. You know the heating gallery, with the fireplaces?"
"And the kitchen range with that humungous fibreglass pig on a spit?"
"Yes," laughed Gillian.
"There's a budget for this?"
"Yes, there is. It won't be particularly generous, though."
"I can understand that, given the circumstances."
Gillian's mind was flying into a whirl. Why hadn't she thought of this before?
"Tim, there's one particular area which could be right up your street. How would you feel about taking on the Domestic Appliances gallery?"
Tim's excitement was palpable. It was the perfect opportunity to unite his artistic talents and engineering passions.
"Now you're talking my language," he grinned.
Tim's adrenalin was pumping with excitement, but also with a trace of fear. He was well aware of his own inadequacies. To be in charge of the acquisition and display of such domestic paraphernalia such as hairdryers, fridges, and vacuum cleaners, was a dream come true. To do so on behalf of the nation was in another league altogether, and an unbelievable honour.
"I'm definitely interested, but I've only ever created one-off pieces. I imagine it's going to be quite a steep learning curve to do a whole gallery."
Gillian nodded. She appreciated his candour.
"I understand that, but you'd have plenty of support."
Back at home, Tim had time to mull over the offer. He was finding himself unexpectedly motivated by an ambition, as a self-professed amateur, to usurp the role of a professional. He was determined to prove that he was just as capable of attracting and engaging museum visitors as any curator. However, Tim found it difficult to reconcile the modern fashion for conceptual displays with an underlying story, with his own nostalgic taste for glass cases stuffed with objects and dotted with cryptic labels. He had neither the training nor the inclination to create a pedantic themed gallery.
"I'm not convinced that many visitors get the 'story' concept," he complained, as he cradled a cup of tea in his hands. "If you watch people in a gallery it's obvious that they don't go round in any logical order. They flit about from one case to another."
Admittedly a themed display could look impressive at first glance, but scratching beneath the surface, he found them rather tedious, and certainly a poor return on the huge investment required for their lavish fit-outs. An old-fashioned glass case approach had the distinct advantage of being relatively economical, which would suit his purposes well.
But he would need something more. Something which would impress the museum directors, and lift his old-fashioned predilections into modernity. Tim firmly believed that what museum visitors most enjoyed was creating their own interpretations and journeys, relating the exhibits to their own individual experiences. One of the things he cherished most was the way objects triggered visitors' memories. He loved the idea of overhearing such remarks as, "Oh, Aunty Flo used to have one like that." The museum, however, was largely unmoved by such sentimentality. Although the accession of contemporary items had been gaining some traction in recent decades, curators were inclined to deem objects which had never been the subject of serious academic study as unworthy of exhibition.
A few weeks later Tim found himself sitting nervously opposite the directors, shuffling his underwhelming drawings and sketches in his lap. He had included some novel ideas for interactive exhibits and some of his trademark cartoons, but he suspected that his simple pitch was light years away from the grandiose presentations the museum was used to. Despite his qualms, it all went remarkably well, and Gillian seemed surprisingly receptive.
"That was excellent, Tim, it looks very promising indeed."
"I can't start straight away, as you know," said Tim, apologetically. He was just about to leave for San Francisco where he had secured a three month fellowship at the Exploratorium.
"That's fine Tim, there's nothing to worry about. We don't have any deadlines for the refurb. You can take your time."
Tim was hopeful that his serendipitous fellowship at the Exploratorium would be a perfect learning opportunity. The museum staff were masters in the art of creating hands-on interactive experiences, an area in which he had very little expertise. Barely a day after his arrival, he handed his new colleagues some photos of the extant displays at the Science Museum. He was looking forward to some inspiring suggestions and lively debate.
"These are the old galleries," he explained, "the ones I'm replacing."
Their response was less than enthusiastic.
"Gee, that's a real challenge," said one of his new colleagues, with a grimace that suggested that this was a deliberate understatement.
Tim felt like he'd been flattened by a bus, and was somewhat concerned that he might have bitten off more than he could chew. Nevertheless he made the most of his visit, keenly observing how visitors engaged with the exhibits, and noting how robust the interactive elements needed to be. When he returned to England in November 1993, he was far better informed, and much more realistic about the project's scope and limitations.
Tim soon gathered an excellent team around him. His chief assistant was Anthony, a joiner from Suffolk. A member of the museum's staff, Peter, was the project manager. There was a group of shopfitters, managed by Colin, and a modelmaker, Willy. Although busy with their own departments and issues, everybody at the museum found time to support Tim, and seemed genuinely interested and open to his new ideas. Their enthusiasm spurred him on.
Starting with the museum's collection of irons, Tim launched gamely into the overall gallery designs, the showcases, and the interactive elements. He particularly relished planning some visual surprises, spiced up with a bit of bad taste, and decided to include some of his own cartoons, providing humour, context, and detail, and obviating the need for wordy descriptions.
"I'm always expecting them to say, 'sorry, you can't do that'," he confided to Anthony, "but I suppose they have bigger fish to fry."
As an outsider, Tim was both surprised and delighted that the museum was so welcoming towards him. He also enjoyed the freedom that this arm's length relationship afforded him. When someone expressed their disapproval or suggested, 'I don't think the director will like that', Tim could relax, secure in the knowledge that he was beyond the reach of office politics, and safe from any concerns about his prospects, or lack thereof, in the museum industry.
Tim was particularly eager to bring the museum's existing collections of domestic paraphernalia up to date. He persuaded The Consumer Association to let him run an appeal in 'Which' magazine, asking for photographs of any post-war domestic objects that readers would like to donate to the museum. He had been warned not to ask for the actual articles from the outset, lest the museum be swamped with a mountain of unwanted items. The 'Which' appeal was soon picked up by other journalists, creating a flurry of interest. Before long Tim had received over ten offers of Goblin teasmades. He was amused to find that most of these were not photographed standing on the bedside table, but in the middle of the bed.
Dave, an assistant curator, knew more about the collection than anyone else at the museum. After helping Tim to sort through all the photographs which had arrived at the museum, he agreed to go and see the most promising items in person. Dave also took Tim to the museum's outlying stores, at a disused airfield near Wroughton on the outskirts of Swindon, and in an old office building in London. Tim was thrilled with these visits. He discovered that Dave had already begun adding to the museum's collection of post-war items in the stores. The shelves yielded a cornucopia of strange objects and mysterious packages.
"It's like Christmas!" he observed, with a beaming smile.
The haul of appliances from the 'Which' appeal and the museum stores was growing ever more exciting, but there were still some gaps to fill. Dave and Tim decided that the best place to look for suitable exhibits might be car boot sales.
"I can't believe this is work!" joked Tim, as they wandered around in the sunshine.
"Stay focussed," warned Dave, "you might miss a real treasure."
Tim stooped down to get a better look under a table, and emerged proudly brandishing an old toaster which had seen better days.
"Perfect! Our visitors are going to see things on display which are identical to the ones they just chucked out," he grinned, "and they're going to be cursing that they threw out a valuable museum piece!"
After about a year of relaxed and unpressured progress, things began to stall. The modelmaker, Willy, left to take up a more lucrative job, and the joiner, Anthony, went sailing abroad. With less help to hand, the remaining team became jaded and exhausted, and Tim struggled to keep the shopfitter, Colin, on track. The museum chose this inopportune moment to make an announcement. The gallery would be opening at the same time as the new education centre, in the autumn of 1995. Tim saved the situation by calling on an old friend, Andy, to help out. His arrival brought fresh enthusiasm and impetus to the project, so much so that Tim took to describing him as superman.
The museum provided a further lifeline by appointing a public relations company which would relieve Tim of the onerous task of promoting the gallery and publicising the opening. Unfortunately, this decision created a new set of frustrations. The new company took the view that the gallery was unlikely to get much news coverage because it was about historical items. It was with this rather negative mindset that they interviewed Dave and Tim. Despite gathering some promising content, they only succeeded in compiling a dull report about the current state of domestic appliances. They were equally downbeat about the opening event, concentrating their efforts on the glamourous education centre instead. They complained that they would need a celebrity to open the gallery if they were to get any coverage at all, but they didn't have sufficient budget to book their first choice, Joanna Lumley. They were just about to try for June Whitfield when an alternative presented itself. Peter, the project manager, invited Kenneth Wood, founder of the eponymous company Kenwood, to cut the ribbon, and Tim himself was chosen to make a speech, being a minor celebrity by virtue of his television appearances.
The last few weeks running up to the opening were increasingly fraught, and Tim was stressed out trying to get everything finished in time. Everybody's nerves were already frayed when, a few days before the opening, a letter arrived in the post.
"It's from the PR company," Tim told Peter, his jaw dropping with amazement, "They've written me a speech and they want me to go and rehearse it with them."
"Really? But you're an author and TV presenter!"
Tim scanned through the speech. It was unbelievably dreadful.
"I'll write my own," Tim announced, "Anything would be an improvement on this."
Finally the day of opening dawned. Time flew by in a blur. Tim delivered the speech he had written; Ken Wood, then aged 93, cut the ribbon, and the public streamed into the gallery for the first time. Now that his speech was over, Tim was expecting to relax and enjoy the remainder of the event, thinking that it would be a delightful opportunity to celebrate with his colleagues. Instead he found himself facing an endless stream of dutiful but disinterested journalists, hearing the same questions and repeating the same almost identical information over and over and again, until he could hardly remember who he was talking to. Only one journalist stood out from the crowd. He had clearly taken the time to have a proper look around the gallery before formulating his questions, and Tim was finally able to have an engaging conversation with somebody who genuinely appreciated the displays and all the hard work that had gone into them.
Finally, Tim was cornered by a satellite TV crew who were filming the opening. Tim found them difficult to work with, and unbearably slow. By the time they had finished he was horrified to find that nearly everyone had left, including many of the people he'd wanted to talk to or to thank for their help. Thankfully, the team and the museum staff were able to end the day on a high, as Tim's friend Andy had helped to throw together a proper party in the evening.
Tim was thoroughly exhausted, so when his next new television series fell through, rather than being disappointed he was immensely relieved. Now that the gallery was open, there were the inevitable snagging lists to compile and details to attend to. While he worked, Tim relished the opportunity to observe the visitors. It was clear that the public were enjoying the exhibits, and the novelty of learning about ordinary things they use every day. Museum warders were now in attendance, and Tim was flattered by the positive feedback he received from them. He was especially impressed that the workshop foreman, who had said almost nothing during the time he had been working, admitted that he 'quite liked it'.
Three months after opening, Tim formally handed the gallery over to the museum maintenance department.
It was in 2000, five years after the opening of the 'Secret Life of the Home' gallery, that I decided to start a teasmade collection. It was somewhat out of the blue. Let's be honest, I was in a rebellious frame of mind. My first husband disliked the bulk and noise of teasmades, and adamantly refused to let me have one, but I defied him and bought a secondhand one. Later that year I visited the Science Museum for the first time since I was a child. My discovery of the 'Secret Life of the Home' gallery fanned the flames of my interest in the history of teasmades, and consolidated my burgeoning passion to collect as many examples as I could. By 2015 I had gathered the world’s largest collection, 172 machines acquired over 15 years of dedicated searching. My present husband has been patient and supportive with my unusual hobby, and I find it particularly fitting that the Goblin head office was once based in Parson’s Green, his last name and my maiden name neatly combined.
As a genealogist, I was drawn to researching the inventors of the teasmade, and I was amazed by the stories I uncovered. We are going to travel back two centuries for the first of these fascinating tales.