Dairy Milk

ImageAccording to The Guardian, there is a furore over Dairy Milk’s new rounded shapes, as the chocolate tastes sweeter. Dairy Milk promise the recipe hasn’t changed.

Sensory scientist, Charles Spence, says that people associate sweetness with round shapes and bitterness with angular.  Circles are sweet, while triangles and stars are bitter, as well as associated with fizz.

Spence also asked subjects to match speech sounds to different chocolates, as well as shapes. Lindt extra creamy (30% cocoa) gets soft-sounding, lower pitched sounds like ‘maluma’. Lindt 70% and 90% get sharper sounds like ‘takete’.

It’s also been found that tastes can be mapped consistently to musical parameters.

“Bitter is associated with low-pitched and continuous music (legato), salty is characterized by silences between notes (staccato), sour is high pitched, dissonant and fast and sweet is consonant, slow and soft.”

These crossmodal correspondences mean we must, deep within our brains, taste our music and hear our tastebuds. A fascinating new area of research about how our brains respond to the world we live in.

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Mind Your Language

ImageWords matter. We all know that.

The difference between someone choosing life-changing surgery might be whether you tell them it has an 80% survival rate, or a 20% mortality rate.

We know it as conversationalists, when we use the wrong word and watch our friend’s face fall.

We know that as advertisers. It’s why we change a runny yoghurt into a ‘probiotic drink’, mark it up 100% and sell it as a health product. It changes the frame of reference, both for the category its sold in, and the consumers who buy it. 

Now this study about how words prompt us what to see. If prompted with ‘dog’, participants were more likely to see the image of the dog being shown – an aspect of priming perhaps. But also proof that language and sight are intertwined. That language helps us order our world and also makes sense of it.

The most interesting part is the last:

Lupyan now wants to study how the language we speak influences the ability of certain terms to help us spot images. For instance, breeds might be categorised differently in different languages and might not all become visible when volunteers hear their language’s word for “dog”.

It’s something literary criticism has struggled with before. How is the signified – the object itself – related to the referent – the word? And how does this change across languages and cultures?

There’s an amazing two parter here about how we divided up the colours in our cultures, naming them differently. What is distinctly either blue and green to us might just be purueda in Korean. 

And what fascinates me too is the words that simply can’t be translated, full of the promises and shapes of hidden cultural structures, that have risen to the surface in some of the world’s languages, but not others. My favourite’s iktsuarpok – to keep going to the front door and looking outside to check if someone you’re waiting for is coming down the road.

What we haven’t studied is how this matters. Do you see more vividly, do you notice individual objects more closely, if those colours are separated? Do you care more about certain breeds if you classify them as ‘dog’ over ‘large rabbit’? The Eskimos may not have a hundred words for snow, but the myth that they do has captured our imaginations.

When we carve up and name our world, language matters.

We just don’t know how yet.

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On Boredom


It’s hard to define boredom, except by its essential lack. It’s about an absence of things: of thoughts, of activities, of fun. I spent childhoods watching rain run down the windows, having read all my books already, and yearning for another Paint-By-Numbers set. My mother used to tell me only stupid people got bored. But I think it’s the converse: it’s the ones whose brains are always flickering and shimmering, seeking out the next novelty, who must tire easiest of what they already know, of the conversations heard a hundred times before, of the words and pictures that can’t fill you up anymore. Powerful brains, the human miracle, that can find hours of imaginative entertainment inside their own head in a doctor’s waiting room, or instead let themselves in five minutes be submerged under the grey lake that is boredom.

Cortisol levels actually rise when we’re bored, showing us in a state of stress. We feel like ‘chewing off our own arm’ or engaging in self-destructive behaviour, we fidget and tap pens and drum our fingers and sigh. Drug addicts are more likely to relapse if they report feeling bored; patients with traumatic brain injuries more likely to report higher levels of boredom and then engage in riskier behaviour to assuage it. Boredom is a state that swallows and encompasses and crushes.

But boredom is increasingly squeezed out of society. Our phones are always in reach, to tap another round of Angry Birds out, or scroll endlessly down Twitter. Boredom is something to be avoided at all costs, to be feared, to seek to stave off its looming presence with low-touch, low-impact digital stimulus, firing up our brain with tiny fragments of pleasure like pixels bouncing across a screen.

However, it’s the strength of our internal resources that pull us through the vacuum of boredom, the wet pictures and fragile worlds we create inside our own selves. So maybe my mother was right. The thoughts that filter into your mind on a three hour train trip when your phone’s out of battery and your whole life seems laid out before you like patchwork fields. The way sunlight drips through grey clouds, how tightly the man next to you is holding onto the headlines in his newspaper, the tessellation of the patterns of the forms of train seats. Or flee instead into a richly created dream world, where magic is the everyday, creating the new from the impossible, seeking novelty in a long story arc, a life of characters who are not like and yet are, me.

I think we are scared of boredom because it is in boredom that we look inside, and see how we have filled ourselves.  

As Martha Naussbaum would put it, “Do not despise your inner world.” Embrace it.


The Need For Speed

Breaking the sound barrierWhen Apple launched the iPad, they predicted it would be used most of the time outside the home: on the commute, when travelling, for spare moments waiting around. But 62% of iPad owners never take their tablet out of the house. Tablets have moved into the living room: they are killing off notebooks, and now are outselling PCs. So how has the iPad been so successful?

One reason is speed. It’s simply faster to turn on a tablet. It takes a second to switch itself on, while your laptop is ponderously humming and whirring for at least two minutes. Why are we so impatient nowadays? Watching a microwave cook your food is almost intolerable: something about the countdown of a few minutes of anticipation begins to itch under your skin in the way that forty minutes of baking in the oven never did.

Speed is one of the defining features of the world today. Internet connections and computers speed up all the time. Things get quicker and quicker and the rate of change speeds up to. Do you remember the fun little games you used to get to play with your cursor while games loaded? Do you remember the spinning hourglasses or whirling wheels? How often do you see that now? I expect to get as quick a webpage load on my mobile as I do on my computer, if not often quicker.

This is often overlooked in the success of things. Surveys suggest that nearly half of users will abandon a site that isn’t loaded within 3 seconds. Make your webpage quick. No matter how good the promised content, no one waits for things to load.

Google did an interesting experiment with regard to load times. Marissa Mayer tells a story where Google asked users whether they’d like 10 or 30 Google search results a page, and the users wanted 30. Google implemented what the users asked for. The pages with 30 results had traffic drop and ad revenue to them by 20%. The difference in the loading time: just half a second.

Speed counts nowadays. That’s why Facebook’s often quoted motto is: move fast and break things. The first rule is: move fast.

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What’s In A Name?

doff thy nameMaybe your parents chose it for you. Maybe you chose it for yourself. It’s probably your father’s surname, though I know people who have hyphenated, or a husband’s, or a great-grandmother’s, or even a hippy blend of both their parents’ first names. And your parents picked out your first name, hopefully checking it for potential teasing nicknames and terrible combinations of initials. But your name might have even further-reaching consequences.

There’s a bizarre phenomenon where people’s own surnames guide them towards their career paths. The New Scientist nicknamed this ‘nominative deternism’ after noticing trend in scientists’ names to reflect on their subjects, including a paper on incontinence, written by J W Splatt and D Weedon.* It might also be genetic – that a good baker comes from a long line of ‘Bakers’, who were originally named for their trade. (No comment on the urologists though.)

The Economist even identifies that world leaders are much more likely to have surnames with A-M than the last half of the alphabet.* It might be that the early-letter surnames spend their time sitting alphabetically, at the front of the class, receiving more attention, being asked to speak more often, and learning more. Or that we still see lists as orders of merits – with those at the top, with the earliest surnames, being the best. The same effect is found for fellowships and Nobel Prizes in economics, where names of contributors are cited alphabetically, but not for psychology, where you’re credited according to the size of your contribution.*

People are even more likely to give to a hurricane relief effort if the initial of the hurricane matches that of their name.*

Our names form a crucial part of our identities, something others label us by. How often have you felt more drawn to, or more competitive with, someone who shares your name? And notice how weirdly intimate you feel when a relative stranger keeps calling you by your name all the time: a standard persuasive technique for pushy salespeople or flirty shop assistants.

‘What’s in a name?’ Juliet might have asked, but a Rose by any other name may not be as sweet.

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In your prime

older_manI’ve just started reading Lean In and Sheryl Sandberg has a great piece on priming.


Sandberg calls it the ‘stereotype threat’ – that if you suggest a stereotype to people, they are likely to live up to it. So, as boys are stereotyped as better at maths and science than girls, you ask children to tick a gender box on the top of their maths test. The girls then perform worse.* But it’s also an example of social priming.


Here’s another example: students were given words that reminded them of elderly people, such as retirement, wrinkle, forgetful, in an unrelated test then measured secretly as they walked down the corridor. Those primed with elderly words walked more slowly than those primed with neutral (unless you disliked elderly people, and then you walked faster!) Another group were primed with rude and neutral words: those with rude were more likely to interrupt.*


So even the words we use, without being aware of it, change the way we act towards others. Considering how often we’ve filled in our names and dates of birth on the front of tests, how have we quietly primed ourselves to succeed or fail, based off subliminal stereotypes?


Currently, priming is having a moment of crisis, as some studies fail to replicate the original results. (Replication means the ability of an entire study to be done again, or done by other people, to cross-check the results, and is a cornerstone of scientific knowledge.)*


Yet social priming still seems a powerful tool. How can we overturn the implicit stereotypes in our society? And how can we use our primed selves to demonstrate greater empathy, or prime ourselves for more positive traits? 


And if you suddenly feel a little more frail, check the photo at the top of this post again, and wonder if you’ve been primed.


* http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1559-1816.2008.00362.x/abstract

* http://psycnet.apa.org/?&fa=main.doiLanding&doi=10.1037/0022-3514.71.2.230

* http://www.nature.com/news/disputed-results-a-fresh-blow-for-social-psychology-1.12902

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Do any of these phrases sound familiar to you?


You’re wasting my time.

This fix will save you hours.

How do you spend your time these days?

That late train cost me an hour.

I’ve invested a lot of time in her.

You’re running out of time. Is that worth your while? Do you have much time left?

He’s living on borrowed time.You don’t use your time profitably. I lost a lot of time last week.


As Lakoff & Johnson point out in their book Metaphors We Live By, we construe Time as Money. This is a buried metaphor, used for so long that we use it without thinking. It’s become a cognitive metaphor, that shapes how we live and act every single day.

In the capitalist system, it makes sense – we are paid by the hour, day, month or year, and we tend to charge by it too. Our time has been exchanged for money. But we extend this metaphor to every part of our lives – spending time with friends, asking if that film was worth seeing. Would we be more generous if we didn’t have this idea that our time can be spent, wasted, or lost?

One of the purest forms of this is the queue. When there’s a limited amount of resource available, like the number of open counters at the Post Office (never enough!), you line up and form an orderly queue. Many jokes have been made of the British love of queuing. Our basic sense of fairness means that everyone, rich or poor, has to take their place in the queue.

Sometimes, you can exchange money for queuing time though. You can pay to ‘queue jump’ at clubs or theme parks. Or you can pay for someone else to queue for you, like these people selling their iPhone 5 spots.

But woe-betide you if you attempt to skip our value system, offer neither time nor money, and queue-jump.

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Our (remembering) self

ImageOne of the experiments that most powerfully affected me from Amos Tversky & Daniel Kahneman’s Thinking Fast and Slow was the cold water trial.

Participants went through a trial where they measured levels of pain while placing one hand in cold water. They had one 60 second trial in 14 degree Celsius water, which is painfully cold but not unbearable. They had a second trial that lasted longer – for 90 seconds, where 60 seconds were in the cold water, then another 30 seconds in that water that was secretly made one degree warmer. The trials were carefully controlled – participants were randomly assigned different hands and different orders for their trials, and didn’t know how long their trials were.

They were then given the option of repeating one of the trials. Over 80% chose the longer trial, voluntarily choosing to suffer 30 extra seconds of needless pain. If they’d been told the trial was longer, they wouldn’t have picked it. But how people remembered pain and how they actually experienced pain was different.

This is due to a conflict between our remembering and experiencing selves. Our experiencing self suffers more pain while the trial is happening – but our remembering self remembers only the worst or best moment, and the end. This is called the ‘peak-end rule’. Kahneman then explores the implications of this for doctors, national happiness, and palliative care at the end of life. Should doctors aim to minimise pain at the end of the procedure, not control it during? Are you happier with more money?

However, what blows me away about this is how this changes our notion of self. We constantly alter how we actually experience the world around us, in order to fit in with our memories and our sense of self. Every minute, we are changing what is actually happening in order to construct our own narratives, overcoming actual real-life experience in order to form cohesive memories.

Who we are is not what we are experiencing – but what we remember.

We are the stories we tell ourselves.

Extra link: Daniel Kahneman on The Riddle of Experience vs Memory, TED

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What is this picture?

It is not merely, as it seems, a photo of some samples of Lush leave in hair conditioner sitting on my bathroom shelf.

It is, in fact, a behavioural problem. Or to be more specific, a context problem.

See, these samples, so generously given by a Lush employee (who then pursued me for a date over Facebook, which is an entirely different problem, mired in the delicate etiquette of flirting for free samples) have sat in my bathroom, unused, for about a year now.

I put them in the bathroom because that’s where I shampoo and condition my hair and do other various beautification tasks to make me the glossy-haired vision of perfection you see before you.

But this is a leave-in conditioner – an altogether different beast – meaning it needs at least ten minutes on my hair to permeate through before being shampooed out. And I’m always in the bathroom either about to shower and impatient, or just leaving the shower when it’s already too late.

The fact is – this conditioner is in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Behaviourally, contextually, it just doesn’t work.

Where and when have always been important in behavioural change. The people who persuaded consumers to use Listerine as a once-a-day bad breath prevention product, instead of an occasional salve for cuts and grazes, understood that, as surely as they understood inventing neurosis over halitosis and the laws of volume (mouthwash using up more product than treating scrapes).

Habit formation really interests me. You might have heard the adage ‘it takes 21 days to form a new habit’ – though current research pegs it at more like 66 days (depending on the complexity of the task).

It’s also easier to do something every day rather than every other. If you go to the gym every day, for example, it becomes a habit, rather than requiring constant bursts of willpower. Good habits are hard to form, and bad ones hard to break. A habit has a powerful cultural context that comes attached to it – think of toothpaste, or shaving.

So two small conclusions.

Firstly, put something in the right place at the right time.

Secondly, if you want to do it more than once, turn it into a habit.

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We Love Our Pack

ImageThere is a single line that can increase the rate of tax repayments by around 15%. And that line is:

‘Nine out of ten people in your area pay their tax on time.’ *

We are in many ways still pack creatures. We act as a herd. We obey certain social norms. We fit in.

And we like to copy people around us. We like to do what they do.

When someone near you yawns, you often find yourself stifling a yawn a few seconds later. No one knows why yawning is ‘contagious’ but it’s easier to catch if we feel emotionally connected to the person yawning – relatives first, then friends, then strangers. There are suggestions as to why we catch yawns – to help synchronise sleeping patterns as a pack, to put us all into the same mood, to show empathy – but no one knows why this behaviour is quite so social.

Studies have showed that even dogs catch yawns from humans – they will yawn and settle down if we do, but they’re not fooled if we only open and close our mouths. Younger dogs don’t catch the yawns in the same way – it’s only over 7 months old that the puppies begin to copy us. *(Have fun practising on your dog today!)

Such social behaviour is vital even now. The code of morals and expectations we all agree on keeps the fabric of society together. We still yearn to be part of the pack.

* Behavioural Insights Team report

* http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/7541633.stm

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