The Joy of Small Things Read online

  Cross-genre covers are the best for this, where artists and styles are completely juxtaposed, and each version becomes a go-to pick for certain moods. Robyn has become known for her ‘sad bangers’, because she often manages to pack contrasting moods into a single song. But while her high-energy ‘Dancing On My Own’ is on my playlist for getting ready to go out, Kings of Leon did a slow version that is depressing as hell and great for a wallow. I also could not have foreseen Patti Smith doing Rihanna’s ‘Stay’, but it works.

  I’ve spent a lot of time rewatching Radio 1 Live Lounge sessions on YouTube, which produce charming covers imbued with a sense of fun – aided by A4 lyric sheets stuck to the studio floor underneath snaking wires. The Arctic Monkeys’ version of Girls Aloud’s ‘Love Machine’ never fails to cheer me up (as does their Glastonbury take on Shirley Bassey’s ‘Diamonds are Forever’). There’s something lovely in witnessing diverse artists appreciate each other.

  There are covers that have overtaken the popularity of the originals, so that listeners might mistake the song’s origins. ‘Respect’, probably Aretha Franklin’s signature song, is an Otis Redding track; he wrote and recorded it two years before Franklin in 1965. And would anyone really argue that Roberta Flack’s ‘First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ isn’t the definitive version of that song, despite it originally being a folk number written by Ewan MacColl for his future wife, Peggy Seeger?

  Amy Winehouse’s vocals on Mark Ronson’s ‘Valerie’ will always get me on my feet. The Zutons’ original doesn’t, nor is it meant to. Winehouse’s version is even more successful as a cover because she doesn’t change the pronouns, which turns the love song on its head and creates a whole new narrative. That’s really the essence of why I love covers: I am a greedy person, and they offer a whole new slice of life.

  ICE-CREAM VANS

  I knew a girl once who was scared of ice-cream vans, which is almost as depressingly unfortunate as people who struggle with sunlight because they are photophobic (or feign photophobia as an excuse to wear sunglasses all of the time; I am on to you).

  Imagine being a child and not liking ice-cream vans or, indeed, ice-cream. That’s a real gut punch. Ice-cream vans, which are one of those pleasures that does not diminish with age (at least, not if you are me) are the kind of wholesome, analogue enterprise which has held its ground in our modern leisure time.

  As a child I lived in a road that ended in a park (‘dead-end’ is such an ugly term, isn’t it?) and this induced a certain anxiety that passing ice-cream vans would not make the effort to stop, judging reversal up a sloped hill too much of a faff. Often, this was an anxiety borne out. Peeking out of the window with the net-curtain pulled back, I would clutch two pound coins in my little hand, eager with anticipation, only to hear the sound of the jingle fade into the distance. Talk about devastating.

  This did mean that the times the sound grew louder were extra special. The menu, at eye level, popping with bright colours and promising rocket shapes of ice, spiralled delights, a pink foot, layered cones with a bubble-gum surprise at the bottom. The ice-cream van menu, each time, was a bit like when my father had taken me to choose a puppy – extremely happy-making, but bittersweet in the knowledge I could only take home one.

  Nowadays I get my ice-cream-van fix from stationary vehicles in parks, or at festivals. I love a Mr Whippy and I do not see the point of one unless going all in. All variations of sauce; chocolate flake; sprinkles. I was dismayed recently to learn from one seller that sprinkles have been banned for hygiene reasons – although he’s the only person I have heard this from. So the rest of them are sort of … the Al Capones of the ice-cream world? I would not recommend following the example of one woman who hit the news in 2014 for calling the police when a van ran out (how do these people exist?).

  Sure, I love a proper parlour as much as the next person – fancy gelato in Tuscan towns, affogato in restaurants – but nothing beats the scrappy feel of a van decorated in seemingly random cartoon decals.

  If there’s one occasional negative, it’s the horror of queuing, gaining access to that glorious whipped treat, and then promptly dropping it on the ground. This happened to me not too long ago, aged thirty-one. All of a sudden, I was five years old again, trying to stop myself from bawling. But, hey, it’s a classic and integral part of the ice-cream-van experience, isn’t it?

  CLEAN BEDDING

  There is something more comforting than luxury spa trips, or even indulgent massages. Something that soothes bones, costs (almost) no money, boosts the mood and makes the nights softer and the mornings lighter. Fresh bedding: clean, taut sheets, plumped pillows, the crinkle of a rejuvenated duvet cover.

  As an insomniac, I look to any possible positive source of influence for a good night’s sleep. Exercise often doesn’t cut it; neither does banishing caffeine. And I cannot tell you the number of lavender-scented candles I’ve bought. The one thing that does, occasionally, seem to help is a ceremonial changing of the bedding.

  This isn’t reward without effort. In the winter months, drying sheets slide from too-small radiators, or hang like brightly coloured ghosts from racks. Before I change my duvet cover, I am tempted to text friends to warn them that, if they don’t hear from me for three days, they must send help. (Sometimes I have to clamber in; I have learned that I would be good at caving.) I am also not convinced one qualifies as an adult while still using fitted sheets. Pillowcases, meanwhile, are origami.

  But, my god, it’s worth it. There is nothing better than the satisfaction of smoothing the top sheet until wrinkle-free – an experience I imagine akin to a painter shrinking their canvas or a labourer pushing a trowel across wet concrete.

  Don’t just take my word for it. Research shows – even that not commissioned by publicists for homeware companies – that clean bedding improves your sleep. A 2012 study by the US National Sleep Foundation found that 73 per cent of us sleep better on fresh sheets. (And also that our romantic lives improve.)

  I am cynical about advertising, but the women I truly believe in (and they are always women) are those who act in the fabric softener and detergent ads, who bury their noses in their queen-size beds with all the abandon of a clubber hoovering up a massive line of cocaine. It’s also true that different people’s beds smell different according to the washing powder they use. This is a little like an olfactory version of Proust’s madeleine: if you one day accidentally buy the same brand as the ex you never got over, you’re screwed.

  One of the best things about getting older and having one’s own money is to upgrade on life’s basics, to step on the second rung of comfort. This means I no longer have to make do with bobbled sheets from college days and a mismatched pillowcase that is too large – think bank card in an envelope.

  The Hans Christian Andersen story ‘The Princess and the Pea’ saw his protagonist kipping on piles of mattresses and feather beds to test her royal sensitivity. I used to think: who would even have that much bedding to hand? But I know better now: the lure of a John Lewis sale and a two-for-one on laundry products is my new dream.

  THE ALL-DAY BREAKFAST

  A lot of money and imagination has been expended on finding the perfect hangover cure: IV drips; glutathione supplements; smearing oneself in mint. Anecdotal experience vies with professional advice: ‘hair of the dog (drinking more alcohol) does not help’, the NHS website states in a chastising tone.

  Really, we all know the perfect hangover cure. It doesn’t involve anything intravenous, costs just £5 and is easily accessible: the Full English Breakfast. Or perhaps more accurately, the All Day Breakfast (affectionately abbreviated to ADB) because any breakfast that isn’t served after 11 a.m. is hardly better than useless. What if one only crawled into bed at 9 a.m.?

  However it appears on the menu, the breakfast has to abide by certain edicts. It must be hearty. It must have a revitalising slow rise of steam – like thermal springs in Nordic countries – but not be so hot as to be mouth-burning. It must be some c
ombination of eggs, beans, hash browns (non-negotiable), toast, and for the non-vegetarians, sausages and bacon. Not black pudding, which should be illegal (I have a petition; I’ll send you the link).

  Some eateries have introduced ‘artisan’ options, which often include avocado (it has the texture of the final sliver of a bar of soap: you’re all mad). Sometimes halloumi and spinach are involved, which I will allow. But the basics are best. Beans should be overflowing to the point of almost dribbling down one’s shirtsleeves; the excess mopped up with toast. Butter should be served warm, so it melts into the bread as liquid gold. It should not come as cold as a mortuary slab.

  Breakfasts should be advertised on a plastic swinging board, blocking half the pavement, outside a traditional greasy spoon. They should not be served on a slice of wood. The price should be rounded to the whole pound. Five pounds, or six, or seven, but never £6.65. This is not in the spirit of the hangover breakfast, when one is fishing out change from a pocket of jeans thrown on and basic mathematics is beyond a still gin-soaked brain.

  The hangover breakfast comes with a risk. An unsettled stomach can creep on. The face becomes clammy, while the triangles of toast transform into unclimbable peaks. I recommend sips of builder’s tea, rather than the heart-shaking addition of coffee. And water, lots of it. If all goes according to plan, the hangover breakfast is a reversal of a day’s fortunes.

  PETTING CATS

  I have a cat. He is called Miles. He is a rescue cat who languished in his cage because he was extremely shy and therefore no visitors bonded enough with him to give him a chance. Eventually I took him home, with a ‘pet pack’ I bought from the cattery. This included a ‘food scoop’, which was, in fact, just a plastic shot glass. Miles arrived in my flat and bolted under the desk and didn’t come out for days. Then, in the dead of night, he bolted under the cooker, and didn’t come out for … weeks.

  Months later, Miles loves me. He does not love or trust anybody else, and still responds to the front door unlocking the same way he would to a firework. But I am allowed to pet him. He adores being petted. He does not like being groomed, which is a problem, because he has a Shakespearean ruff and furry britches. His fur knots like a cat’s cradle. He likes petting, which has no practical purpose except his own comfort and pleasure.

  That comfort and pleasure is as much mine as it is his. I like to rub his ears between my thumb and forefinger, as though it is a swatch of material I am considering for a reupholstery project. He likes it, too. I like pressing the little jellybean pads on the underside of his paws, cold to the touch after he trots in. He likes it, too. I like scratching under his chin, his purr vibrating against my fingers. He likes it, too.

  There’s a spot on his back that if scratched causes him to fall to the floor and roll over sideways, the kind of move an eccentric drama teacher would dream up. Sometimes I hold him like a baby and his big, gold eyes stare into mine, mildly pissed off. (Miles is a jet-black, long-haired cat. He strongly resembles an owl, facially.)

  Everyone knows the joy of pets, otherwise we would not share our homes with these animals that brazenly claw at our favourite clothes, or tear through furniture, or poo up walls or whatever mischief they get up to from one day to the next. The ubiquity of emotional-support animals has now tipped into peacocks-on-planes absurdity, but owning pets, and stroking and cuddling them, has health benefits.

  One 2017 Swedish study even found that the risk of heart attack was 11 per cent lower in pet owners. Puppies have been introduced to relax finals students at universities. Cats are said to gravitate towards dying patients in care homes, to comfort them in their final hours. And, without a doubt, burying my face in Miles’s hot belly is just as effective as benzodiazepines. It’s also possibly more addictive.

  WINDOW SEATS

  There’s a scene in Kieślowski’s Three Colours Blue (one of the greatest films of all time) where Juliette Binoche sits in a café, idly pouring coffee on her ice-cream, going through real heavy shit, and looks out of the window at a man on the street playing a recorder. Personally, I wouldn’t be hugely thrilled at a man playing a recorder during a meditative moment, but it’s the sort of unexpected vignette of humanity that sitting by the window affords. I don’t understand having the option to sit at a window and not choosing it. Would you walk around with your eyes closed? Or sit in the dark? Do you watch television with it switched off?

  The restaurant at the top of the North Tower of the World Trade Center was called Windows on the World. But all windows are windows on the world. Sometimes they’re not great ones – as anyone privy to a neighbour’s dressing routine can attest – but more often than not, sitting next to a window is the inspiration of painters and writers; a crash course in anthropology; a catalyst for a change in mood or reflection on, like, life.

  It’s a proscenium, where the arch is a peeling sash frame, or the scratched, plastic edges of an Airbus, or the little blue curtains of a first-class carriage. The things you see. The people, animals, happenings. With urban windows, the everyday cordiality: drivers and pedestrians thanking each other with nods and semaphore. Amazing outfits. Friends joshing each other. Or the opposite: annoying lads doing wheelies in the road, endangering themselves and everyone else, half a decade before they’ll shake their heads about it all.

  Train window seats reveal green and gold treasures for miles. Thoughts appear from fields and tumble from skies. That doesn’t happen when you’re looking at an open-and-closing malfunctioning toilet door or are buffeted by trolleys selling Mini Cheddars for £5. In a plane, sure, you have to disturb your seat neighbours once in a while – for a wee, to stave off DVT – but it’s worth it, for the pointillist pastel houses of foreign lands; the expanse of seas and undulating rivers never swum.

  The significances of window seats are well recognised. That’s why film cuts include characters staring mournfully past droplets of rain on glass, or CEOs looking out from top-floor offices, their feet on desks. It is why we’re all well versed in the Parisian flâneur, strolling the streets before sitting and observing. It’s why you can easily imagine me writing this, right now, watching the shadows on the pavement, the sun warming the glass, my chin in my hand, head turning slowly back to the screen.

  POCKETS

  Pockets are a feminist issue. Pockets are a class issue. Dedicated histories have been written on pockets. Research has been conducted. I appreciate all of it, because I simply adore a pocket. Even Ötzi (born 3345 BCE), popularly known as the Iceman (so popular in fact that Brad Pitt got a tattoo of him), loved a pocket. In his case, to carry flint and dried tinder fungus. Pitt probably loves a pocket.

  Women, too, love pockets. And yet, we are continually stifled. It is thought it was circa the seventeenth century when pockets began to be sewn into clothes. Men’s clothes, that is, not women’s. (Although the word ‘pocket’ is a reference to the pouches women wore around their waists.) Pocket inequality remains: a 2018 study by website The Pudding found that pockets on women’s jeans were 48 per cent shorter and 6.5 per cent narrower than those on men’s. Often, garments for women don’t even have pockets. Worse is the trend for fake pockets. I don’t know who invented this charade, but I wish them a life of standing barefoot on upturned plugs.

  I was constantly chastised when growing up for never carrying a wallet or purse. I didn’t see the point, when I could enjoy skipping about, arms free to climb trees, give high-fives or smoke. I continue to stuff the usual items into pockets: keys, phone, debit card – even though I always carry a rucksack.

  But I think my real love of pockets comes from standing in meetings with both hands slipped into well-cut trouser pockets, thumbs out, pretending to be at least eight times more intelligent and mature than I actually am (see also: wearing polo necks). In the summer, this is flipped to standing in a park, hands tucked into the back pockets of denim shorts, pretending to be at least eight times cooler than I actually am.

  Some actual pockets are as infuriating as fake ones. The
tiny jean pocket, for example, which was originally meant for cowboys’ watches. (Hence, ‘pocket watch’.) If I use this at all, it is for change. Apparently, it is now known in the industry as a coin pocket, though in the past it’s also been a match or ticket pocket.

  It has also been called a ‘condom pocket’, a name popularised by a 2006 Levi’s 501 advert, shot by Michel Gondry in moody black and white over a techno soundtrack. I don’t tend to carry condoms in my pockets – mostly because I think any girlfriend might be bemused. But I will never tire of the freedom to carry basically everything else.

  AUTUMN LEAVES

  The colours of autumn are abundant: the cool blue of the sky, the silver frost on the grass, the fuchsia of an early sunset. But the true riches are the leaves. The deep reds; the fierce oranges. The ochre of those curled at the edges. The shrivelled ones; the pale yellow of fading bruises. The combination of these colours against those crisp skies is majestic.

  While the adjustment from summer to autumn can be tough – the reacquaintance with relentless rain and walking home from work in darkness – the colours are a solace. Walking around parks in October conjures Vincent van Gogh’s Autumn Landscape With Four Trees (1885); the sienna, veiny delights of Georgia O’Keeffe’s Autumn Leaves (1924); Gustav Klimt’s Birch Forest I (1902). But best of all, David Hockney’s huge studies of Woldgate Woods (2006).

  Without wishing to go full curmudgeon, something is lost in the dying art of kids jumping into piles of leaves, eschewed for the bleeps, vibrations and scrolling of tech. Kicking up carefully raked leaf hills to the dismay of sighing park rangers. Taking a rugby-style kick and watching them flutter down like confetti. Mittens swaying from bare clapping hands. Instead we have articles warning parents of ticks and scratches.