As It Was, the Harry Styles pop song, was streamed on Spotify 1.6 billion times last year, about half of them by me. It was by some measure the track I listened to most, followed by ye olde Fleetwood Mac’s Dreams and Nina Simone’s Sinnerman.
Why? Because it has that salty-caramel moreishness of being both upbeat and wistful. But mainly because, awww Harry, isn’t it just ADORABLE!
My sons roll their eyes at what they fear is an age-inappropriate crush, but it’s not a sex thang at all. Reading Robert Crampton last week describe his obsession with Emily in Paris, I thought: that’s just how I feel about Harry!
Looking at him is like scrolling cat videos which both amuse and soothe. Let’s face it, the news is intolerable, in fact has been dire since about 2019. So Harry dancing in sparkly dungarees or Harry somehow looking cool carrying a handbag or teenage Harry disarming Simon Cowell talking about working in a Cheshire bakery . . . well, it beats thinking about Ukraine.
When I was a bit broken after my mum died, I went to the cinema alone to watch Harry’s films. I liked My Policeman best because being set in the 1950s they covered up his terrible tattoos. (My only mark against him.) Shhh, yes, I know he can’t act. But have you seen his sweet face! Look, I’ll show you a clip. Awww.
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Bang on
My best purchase this Christmas was a display-in-a-box firework. For about £150 you get two solid minutes of stars and bangs, which is all the fireworks you need. Those 30-minute municipal events always drag on. A person can only emit so many oohs and aahs.
But my big firework, set off on Aldeburgh beach by a trio of young men excited to be handling ordnance, who belted across the shingle as the fuse began to fizz, was the perfect end to Christmas night.
It was also a relief. My husband thinks a childhood of government health warnings on Guy Fawkes night made me unduly nervous about fireworks. I had the box delivered to Aldeburgh friends because I was scared to drive it up the A12. What if we crashed with all that gunpowder on board? Though we’d go with a bang, I suppose.
Large fry
I’m still undecided about the air fryer. (A gift from my mother-in-law, so I’ll mind what I say.)
Every kitchen appliance should receive a use-to-counter-top ratio. A kettle, for example, would score 3 to 1, since it is compact and in constant use. A toaster is 5 to 1, whereas my bean-to-cup coffee machine a bulky but brilliant 10 to 1.
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The air fryer is a mysterious, even sinister gadget: a vast, black dome with this tiny drawer in which you insert food to be mildly incinerated. It could be a crematorium for dolls.
Is it useful? It purports to roast vegetables in seven rather than 40 minutes. But they aren’t the same. Desiccated yet flavourless. It’s one step up from a microwave (20 to 1), which I only use for softening frozen ice cream.
So far the air fryer has only excelled at croutons and cauliflower pakoras, things I’ve never cooked before in my life. Unless dear Times readers have better suggestions, I’m marking it a get-in-the-cellar 30 to 1.
Talking scents
I’m listening to Jarvis Cocker read his lovely memoir Good Pop, Bad Pop in which he reflects on items he’s hoarded for years in his loft. He has particular nostalgia for old brands, saving a tiny sliver of Cussons Imperial Leather soap before the iconic label was changed.
Toiletries can have immense power over our senses. I’ve used Macleans toothpaste my whole life: other makes just taste wrong. Yet few shops now seem to stock it. I fear like Jarvis I’ll be hoarding a last tube in my loft.
