Join Harry Styles and his wife as they journey through life with their first-born daughter Grace (plus their other two children, Ethan & Penelope) in a collection of realistic, nonlinear short stories that will melt your heart, make you smile, and e...
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"Alright Santa's little helper, we need to set the gas mark." Harry says to Grace as he walks towards the oven to set the correct temperature for the mince pies.
"I a E-ff, not 'elper." Grace puts her right hand on her hip, pushing it out to the side full of sass.
"Oh, you are right, bug. You are an elf. And I am..." Harry prompts.
"Fa-ver Chriss-mess!!" Grace smiles at her father. Harry is wearing a red apron that depicts Father Christmas and Grace is wearing a green one that looks just like an elf.
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Picking up a bar stool, Harry brings it close to the oven.
"Come on, my little Elf! You can set the gas mark." Harry lifts Grace up so she is standing on the bar stool. She holds onto his arm as she looks at all the buttons. "See the numbers here?" Harry points to the digital screen that displays the temperature of the oven. "We need it to say 2..2..0. Can yeh push the buttons?"
"I help! I help!" Grace says, lifting her finger to the buttons. Harry guides her finger to the up arrow so she can adjust the temperature in the appropriate direction. Pushing his finger softly over the top of Grace's candy cane striped fingernail. "Ush.... Ush.... Ush." Grace says as she pushes the button, watching the numbers increase.
"Look. What numbers do we see?" Harry says pointing towards the numbers displayed on the oven. "Two... Two... Zero." Harry points to each number as Grace nods along.
"Hip hip hooray!!" Grace puts one hand on each hip as she says the words 'hip hip", throwing her arms high in the air waving her hands back and forth for the hooray.
"That's right bug, hip hip hooray!" Harry repeats the action with his daughter, excited the oven is heating up and they can start to roll out their dough. "Go climb up on your stool, I'll grab the pastry." Harry says to his little Elf who hops off her stool, the curls on her head bouncing about like little bungee jumpers.
"I be helper?" Grace asks.
"Yes, my love. You can help roll out the pastry. Then we need to cut it so it can go into the tins." Harry explains. Reaching into his massive refrigerator and pulling out one of the three discs of dough that have been wrapped in clingfilm to chill. Dropping the dough against the marble countertop with a thump.
