Will Harris on the moment time stood still

f, in years to come, some disembodied ‘they’ ask me to recall where I was when I heard Amy Winehouse had died, I will be forced to say I was at my friend N’s new flat, trapped inside a piece of furniture. I have, you may have realised by now, a particular talent for getting myself trapped in things: bathrooms, black cabs, dysfunctional relationships. On this occasion, the instrument of my confinement is a half-finished day bed from Ikea, which I have been helping to build and have now somehow managed to nail myself inside.

“Willy!” N, screwdriver in hand, is clutching her hair in exasperation. “Did you not see the slats getting closer and closer? What did you think would happen?”

“Well, clearly I thought I was leaving myself enough room to stand up,” I lie. The truth, that I got carried away with the manliness of the operation and didn’t want to stop hammering, will win me no friends in these quarters. I fold my arms in annoyance, then remember no-one can see beneath the slats and unfold them again.

“Shhh!… Shhh!” A radio is turned up. “Oh my God, Amy Winehouse is dead.”

Have you ever noticed, when a really big piece of news breaks, when cars collide or towers fall, the world seems to freeze just for a moment while your brain processes the information? It’s like you’ve taken a sideways step out of the comfortable old universe, where everything is as it should be, into some strange new universe, where all the rules have been rewritten. I stare at the underside of the day bed and try to take it in.

“This, I realise, is my generation’s John Lennon moment”

Amy Winehouse is dead. Over the days that follow, throughout a meticulous media post mortem, commentator after commentator will ask if we were really that surprised. She was an addict, they will say, and there are only two ways an addict can go: rehabilitation or an early grave. Of course we all know Amy’s views on rehab.

But I am surprised. To me, the headline ‘Winehouse Dead’ is as shocking as one saying ‘Bigfoot Discovered’ or ‘Murdoch Knew Nothing’. This, I realise, is my generation’s John Lennon moment.

Back at home, I sit beneath my favourite painting in the world: a pop art print of Winehouse and her husband kissing on a red carpet. It is the most valuable thing I own (perhaps even more so now); buying it nearly bankrupted me, but I love it.

Amy Winehouse, whatever is said about her personal life, will be remembered by many of us as an icon: a unique persona backed up by a remarkable talent. We played her at our dinner parties, took her into our hearts, some of us even hung her on our walls, and we will miss her dearly.