The happiness police

On a recent sodden weekend walk, I tried to cheer myself up by thinking: it’s not so bad. Not the slugs or the sky or the rain making its way down a gap between neck and waterproof. But I couldn’t do it. Losing heart, I turned back. Glump, glump, glump through the puddles.

It rained through breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner. Same the next day. And the day after. I wore grey and sighed at the window.

But I am aberrant. Melancholy is against the rules nowadays. I should have put on my yellow wellies, twirled my spotty umbrella, photographed myself in the garden and put it online with the hashtag #singingintherain. That’s what everyone else seems to be doing.

If, like me, you are a natural Cassandra, then the present Pollyanna tendency is a trial. I do not smile at smiley faces. Today is not the first day of the rest of my life. It is the 10,371st day of my life and it is raining.

I do not want to Keep Calm and Be Happy. I am not moved to ‘Clap along because I’m happy’ as Pharrell Williams exhorts from every radio from March until October. I am not chivvied along by ‘fitness inspo’, ‘wellness inspo’ or ‘bluesky inspo’ social media posts.

I am certain that starting my day with #almondmilk, #avocadotoast and #sunsalute #yoga will not make me cheerful, whatever the bloggers say. I do not aspire to, and I am unlikely to attain, the condition of H.O.T.ness. That is: being happy, open and trusting.

I do not want to apply my felt tips to the pages of the Colour Me Happy and Don’t Worry Be Happy colouring books. I would rather not stop and smell the flowers, so prettily photographed and filtered: #blossom #pink #summer.