I am feeling in need of an uplift.
Not a property uplift, even though Mr B and I are still captivated by that TV programme "Homes Under the Hammer" where people snap up
bargains at auction and then proceed to make mega-bucks by installing new kitchens and bathrooms and painting everything in magnolia. Nor, even - in case you are brave enough to ask - an uplift of Parts of the Body, though some might argue, given what Young
Faris likes to call my Great Age, this goes with the territory.
No, it's an uplifting of spirits I need, following a particularly downbeat couple of days. It isn't that anything horrible has happened, you
understand, unless you count Mr B dropping the shower head and breaking it so that now it sprays out water from two separate openings, only one of them the right one. He is sitting at the dining room table now trying to mend it, having disengaged it from the
shower. Much muttering is going on. For my part I am maintaining a discreet, but supportive, silence especially as I know he is doing this for me. He knows how much I need my morning shower, complete with soapy singalong, to put me in a happy mood for the
You would have thought, wouldn't you, that the Spring sunshine we have enjoyed over the last few days should have uplifted me - but my poor Mr B simply doesn't feel like going out and it's hard
staying in when the sun is beckoning you to "Come Outside!"
Yesterday afternoon we opened the patio doors as wide as we could to let the sunshine in and watched "The Water Diviner" together. It's a good film
though the warning on the back of the DVD cover - "Contains bloody injury detail" - might just have warned me that, however uplifting the ending might be, we were going to spill a few tears along the way. Russell Crowe searching for his sons killed on the
battle fields of Gallipoli made me remember Ernest the Farm Boy, the subject of one of the case studies I contributed to The Great War Project. I can't begin to imagine what it must have been like for him being suddenly transported from the rural peace of
the tiny village of Streat in East Sussex to fight the Turks in a foreign land, so far from home in every respect.
Which is as good a way as any of pulling myself together and instructing myself to be uplifted.
If you think happy, you will be happy. So I have decided to start on another 100 Happy Days exercise. Regular readers may remember that, not content with completing just one round of recording my Happy Days, I went on for a further two rounds until, not surprisingly,
after 300 happy days in succession - that's the best part of a year! - I ran out of steam. Now I think I am ready for a re-run.
The idea of 100 Happy Days is that you choose every day a photograph that makes
you feel happy. Some days it's easy - those are the days when grandchildren come to visit, or the Youngest of the Darling Daughters and I meet up for one of our regular Lunch and Theatre Trips, or a new bird appears on the feeder. It's the other days which
require the Application of Imagination which is, as everyone knows, a Wonderful Thing.
Mr B, who lives for his sport, would argue that it is easy to be happy when Spurs and Gillingham football clubs are winning
or when England is playing well in the Twenty-Twenty cricket final. Which is as may be but presumably when his team is winning and he is happy, some other poor person whose team is on the losing side will be miserable. Unless a match ends in a draw when I
dare say nobody is completely satisfied. Sport has a lot to answer for. Mr B says this is because I haven't factored in Happiness Plus, also known as Euphoria which sports fanatics enjoy in spades. I could argue that the opposite of Euphoria is Dismay but
I'm doing my best to be uplifting, as well as uplifted.
I'll settle for good, old-fashioned happiness myself.
A hundred days of it...