This autumn, on the rare occasions I venture out, I’ve taken to looking back at my house. With warm yellow light radiating from the window, framed against the blue-black sky, the glow from the woodburning stove and my husband sitting in the ragged red and pink armchair, happily absorbed in a book (OK, usually his phone), it just looks so cosy.
Who doesn’t love cosy? It’s like loving puppies, or presents. Even the young – who are supposed to be out with no coat in all weathers, wreaking enjoyable havoc – have embraced it. There are 5.4bn views for #cozy on TikTok, where they’re dressing like chic grandmothers and doing “cozycardio” workouts. But we’re all fully paid-up members of the cult of cosy; we’ve got, not the T-shirt, but the chunky knit, the slipper socks and the Richard Osman novel. How did cosy become our dominant aesthetic, one of our most enduring pleasures, and why?
