Earlier this week I wrote about Monday being pseudo-scientifically the unhappiest day of the year. But this week has actually been filled with little pockets of gladness.
I’ve been taking the Tube in to work (after a disaster with a lost Oyster, and therefore travelcard, last week) for the first time in ages. I’d forgotten how rammed it can be in the morning.
So it was a pleasant surprise to hear the driver say, instead of the usual ranting about how if we stand clear of the doors, the train will be able to go, that he thought we ought to have a singalong in our carriages to detract from the unpleasantness of the journey. I was sorely tempted, but after my pre-Christmas solo sing-with-me experiment, I thought perhaps slightly frazzled early morning commuters might not be up for it. Plus my face was in someone’s armpit which isn’t the ideal position for your voice to be heard. The idea made me smile though, and I stood from Clapham Common to Stockwell, imagining the Coca Cola advert that what would have happened if someone started singing…
Then, yesterday, B informed me that in America they would be celebrating National Cheese Lovers Day. I love cheese. I can’t even begin to tell you how much cheese makes me happy. So much so that I have to not buy it because I could just eat and eat and eat it. And then I’d get fat. And that would make me slightly unhappy. It’s a fine line I have to walk. But last night we went wild and crazy and ate cheese. Lots of cheese. Pure and unadulterated. O joy.
Perhaps this week has been the glummest week of the year for you. You could watch episodes one and two of Glee on 4od to cheer yourself up. Or you could hearten yourself with a mini-moment of happiness writ large just down the road from me for the whole world to see, and remember that January is not so bad, and there is joy in little hidden pockets to be found everywhere.