Nancy Alsop

I have a pickpocket living in my house. The thief is small, agile and remarkably discriminating in her larceny. Not for this pocket dipper the usual array of purses or loose change (though I doubt she’d baulk at the latter). It is my phone, and solely my phone, she’s after. And, like every burglar caught halfway through an open window, this charming crook insists she’s only ‘borrowing’ it. Yes, my ten-year-old daughter is addicted to YouTube and will use whatever means possible to feed the habit.   This, despite my dutifully signing up to every newsletter warning of the great screen invasion of childhood.

Close your eyes and cast your mind back, if you will, to the summer of 2024. Britain had just crowned a new prime minister, our fortunes in a major football tournament hung in the balance, and the country braced for an incoming heatwave. So far, so déjà vu. But on TikTok there was only one serious question: were you, like Kamala Harris, having a Brat Summer? Were your energies, like those of the would-be POTUS, spent unleashing party girl vibes and embracing self-acceptance to the thumping sounds of Charli XCX?  If that passed you by, perhaps you remember 2025's Hot Girl Summer?

For the past 264 days, I have been hounded by a merciless small green owl. If I were to share this with friends, troubled whispers about my mental wellbeing would soon strike up. Disquieted, they might even cart me off to the hellscape of a wellness intervention. And yet this malevolent bird is entirely real. It is there when I unload the dishwasher, lamenting its disappointment in my efforts; and it is there when I put my daughter to bed, warning that it is about to become 'very angry'. Yes, Duolingo is an insidious Jiminy Cricket on modern shoulders – except that it lives in our pockets and, rather than dispensing wisdom, is an emotionally blackmailing shame merchant with rage issues. It wasn’t always this way.