Dizzying spectacle
Alex James
As it is something we all crave, even demand as a right, a lot of research has been conducted into what makes people happy. I’m surprised everybody isn’t aware, and apologies if you already are, that there are three different classes of experience that are all guaranteed to fill our wells of content.
First, some kind of sensory satisfaction is bound to make us feel better: sex, shopping, cheese; all that stuff in the adverts. It’s relatively easy and instant, but unfortunately it doesn’t last long. More profound and enduring, second-order satisfaction is to be found doing things that we are good at. We’re all good at something. As you may know, I am brilliant at Tiddlywinks and it is a source of great personal satisfaction, but there is sometimes the nagging feeling that there may be more to life than Tiddlywinks, as it were, which is why it is sometimes necessary to invoke the third option: the only proven route to universal, enduring, bottomless bliss. The more I think about happiness, part three, the more wonderful it seems; the more fondness I feel towards humanity as a thing, and the happier I feel, actually.
The best way to stay deeply happy is to do good: to find something that we believe in, that is in some sense bigger than we are, to make ourselves a part of it and muck in. It explains ageing rock stars’ predilection for saving the world. Having spent their lives being paid for doing something they are good at and enjoy, while simultaneously exhausting the spectrum of sensory delights, is bound to prompt the conscience to give something back in all but the maddest maestro, and these acts of selflessness as they develop, if we are to believe the research, bring more satisfaction than any amount of feasting, physical adulation or bags of shopping ever did.
It was not in the spirit of the world-saving rock star that I agreed to help the National Trust with their Great Green Leap Day initiative. But when I thought about it afterwards, which I did quite a lot, I realised I was wearing a big smile as I turned it over in my mind. The Trust had given its entire workforce the Leap Day off to set about greening up their lives: switching to lowenergy lightbulbs, installing draught-excluders, planting cabbages, all the easy stuff that we know we should have done ages ago but never got round to. An excellent idea. The children of St James’s School in Chipping Campden were joining in, with a great amount of purpose and glee, learning about food miles and all sorts besides, by planting up a couple of vegetable beds in their playground. Gardeners from Hidcote Manor, a Trust property nearby, were in attendance, lending their expertise. I was there for muscle. I love a bit of digging.
Chipping Campden is one of those places in the Cotswolds that doesn’t have anything discernibly bad about it whatsoever. There is not a scrap or suggestion of ugliness, in any of its infinite forms, within five miles of Chipping Campden. Even smoking there felt inappropriate. It all said happy, lovely, wonderful, but, as we know, if the people of that paradise don’t find themselves some ugly problems to get their teeth into pretty soon, they’re going to start feeling unfulfilled, poor souls. We planted some beans and potatoes and then I stood at the front of the assembly and asked the children what they knew about where their food comes from. But they were all three steps ahead of me; even the little wrigglers in the front row were putting their hands up. ‘Bananas come from monkeys!’ They all knew quite a bit about energy saving, too. In truth it’s us lot that need to learn more about all that stuff, not them. As I was leaving, a ‘move and groove’ class was getting under way in the gym. ‘Watch us, watch us!’ said the girls. The sense of anticipation was irresistible, so I stayed to watch their routine. An entire class of ten-yearolds danced their little socks off, the teacher grooving away at the front facing them. Every single one of them was grinning and giving it everything with unselfconscious abandon. It was an unforgettable spectacle and moved me to the point of tears, like seeing a dolphin in its natural habitat might.
It’s a long time since I’ve been to a junior school, and I think the feeling of mirth that I took away with me had more to do with the atmosphere there than my worldsaving raking skills; the sheer benevolence of the place, the enthusiasm and bright optimism of the children was intoxicating. Happiness. You just never know when it’s going to come and whack you on the head and make you dizzy.
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