Don't Worry, Be Happy

          The topic of last week’s University of the Third Age (U3A) discussion group was Happiness and we duly tied ourselves in knots trying to define it. My rough conclusion was that happiness is a human condition existing at a point on a continuum labelled ‘bliss’ at one end, ‘abject misery’ at the other and ‘contentment’ in between. This sits nicely with my own experience, which is that my life so far has been lived in a state of contentment, with occasional forays towards the extremes. The question then arose, can you recognise happiness if you’ve never been sad? Well, unless such discussions are conducted within strict academic parameters, they can get out of hand and soon become more frustrating than interesting. Fortunately, our sessions are time-limited, so there is always an escape route if things become uncomfortably contentious.

          On Saturday, I was amongst a lot of people who were demonstrably happy (whether they knew it or not is a moot point) for they were celebrating being LGBTQ+ at Tavistock’s Pride Festival. I had started the day feeling a bit grumpy because I had been co-opted into the logistics of transporting and erecting Extinction Rebellion’s stall, then hanging around until it was time to pack it all up and bring it home, effectively sacrificing a whole day to a greater cause when I would have preferred a spot of self-indulgence. But it’s hard to remain glum when all around you is gaiety. Besides, the sun was shining and, when I had had enough of the Freddie Mercury-based soundtrack, I was free to wander into town and get a fix of its unique old architecture and seemingly thriving shops and pannier market. Then, when I returned to the park, I tried something that I would ordinarily not have contemplated: morris dancing. A friend, whose troupe was dancing that day, dragged a couple of us out of our spectator comfort zone to join in an impromptu beginners’ class. The choreography involved wielding sticks in a mock sword fight, which was hazardous but arguably more exhilarating than waving handkerchiefs, an alternative tradition followed by some groups. I was actually complimented on my kick-step, though I suspect this mild flattery might have been a subtle recruitment tactic. Now that I have danced the dance, let me say that I do admire fellow countrypersons who selflessly uphold our ancient folk traditions and am grateful to them for doing so; but one morris dance is enough for me.

          Last week also saw the successful conclusion of my project to renovate the mahogany handrail on the balcony – something that brought me happiness, though I use the word loosely to convey what might more honestly be described as smug satisfaction. It has been many years since I was apprenticed to a cabinet maker, so it was with some apprehension that I approached the task, as I knew it would involve using a tricky little tool known as a cabinet scraper, which is a thin, flexible sheet of steel the size of a cigarette pack, the edges of which have to be formed in a certain way, periodically, to keep them sharp and effective. The forming process itself required skill and a couple of tools that I no longer had, so a visit to the tool shop was required – and that is guaranteed to make me happy, especially when I get to consult with a certain bloke there who knows what I’m talking about. Of course, the niceties of the apparently straightforward process of fixing a handrail that is partly rotting and in need of re-polishing will not be apparent to the layperson, so it’s unsurprising that no one has yet said to me, “Nice job!” Although, come to think of it, if there’s any truth in the saying “ignorance is bliss”, perhaps it’s best if I keep schtum on the technicalities. Then we’ll all be happy.