Millions of us hand over our pound coins each week so that for a few hours we can enjoy the feeling that possibly, perhaps this time, we can have the big lottery win that will allow us to escape from our lives and buy our way to happiness. We spend hours choosing what we will do with our millions. Perhaps you decided that you would buy an island or a private jet. And then while we wait for the results we watch that documentary – you know the one, about the lottery winner who made it big and now lives all alone, isolated, friendless, surrounded by bodyguards, imprisoned in their furniture showroom fortress. I wonder if they are happy?
Have you ever listened to the old? You know, those old folks who lived through the last world war. They lost members of their families to the hostilities, they survived the blitz, and they made do with very little due to rationing and shortages. And they were happy. They talk of the good old days. They talk about the spirit of camaraderie and friendship, of talking over the garden fence and of looking out for each other, sharing the little that they had. When was the last time you chatted over the garden fence? Can you even look over your garden fence or is it the highest you can legally have? When did a neighbour last knock on your door and ask to borrow a little sugar or milk?
Essex was once the holiday destination of choice for Londoners. They came out once a year for a week in Canvey Island or Southend. Luxury was a tray of whelks. Now our destinations are further afield – in fact, the further the better. We search out the new holiday resorts – the ones no one else has discovered yet so we can sit on the beach and get brown in privacy. Does this make you happy? Even for a little while?
Back home we are surrounded by electronic gadgetry. We buy happiness for our children by providing them with a television and DVD player in their bedrooms. We give them their own mobile phones and telephone extensions. We regularly update their laptop and internet connection. All this so they can stay in their rooms and ignore the rest of the family unit. Are they happy? Or do they ask you for the next item in a never-ending list of materialist possessions – because their friends have all got one already?
I do not judge you. I confess that I am no better. My son carries one of these portable music devices, I will refrain from naming it but you all know the ones I mean, miniature electronic gizmos capable of storing thousands of songs. Why does he need to have three thousand songs on standby as he travels? Is there some terrible risk involved in hearing the real world or the words of the people on the bus?
If life is so grand why do we spend so much time wishing we could have the simple things? Some supermarkets are now selling what they are calling ‘ ugly fruit’. I used to call it fruit, the sort that grew on trees and was not polished, waxed, wrapped in individual tissues or stickered. Fruit that is misshapen. Natural fruit, real fruit, the fruit we used to eat – before we discovered organic.
Since when did life have to be so complicated to be fulfilling? Is it possible to be happy with a cheese sandwich and a flask of coffee? I’m off to sit in the middle of a field and find out...
