Try South London. It really is better than North London.

Some common prejudiced opinions about South London for you:
- It isn't really 'London'
- It's full of people like Del Boy
- It's a heaving mass of people ready to stab you and steal your money
- They tend to enjoy a good riot down that way.

I've been known to say variations of all these things, although only ever in jest and as provocative rhetoric. I don't believe any of them. I actually quite like South London, in the same way I like East London, West London, Central London... you get the gist.

Some facts about South London that you may not have been aware of:
- Like your art and festivals? Well, there's quite a few festivals and art events that take place over the year.
- If you're into your art why not check out the Camberwell Arts Festival between 17th and 21st June 2012.
- Or if a good street party is more your thing, then there's the Bermondsey Street Festival on 22 September 2012. Let's see, what else is there...
- Waterloo Carnival on 15th July 2012 (the theme is superheroes. Awesome)
- The Affordable Art Fair at Battersea (this one was in March I'm afraid)
- The Greenwich + Docklands International Festival from 21st to 30th June 2012.
- There's lots of interesting history for each of the boroughs (if you're curious, then check out this page).
- Southbank, one of my favourite parts of London, is in the south of London.
- Apparently some famous people were born there.

Okay, time for full disclosure: the title of this post was given to me by a friend after we agreed we would each come up with a title on which the other had to write this month. I've drawn the short straw. This is a title perfectly crafted to either provoke me or to try and force me to sing the praises of South London, although he says it was to try and get me to do a little research on the area. I'm a lover of North London. He's a lover of South London. It's not hard to connect the dots. We're not the only ones that have had this debate either; check out this article from Time Out that pits North London and South London against each other to see how just how deep the prejudices and xenophobia goes (it starts off with a rant against North London, so make sure you read page 2 for the mirrored attack).

However, my education in History wasn't for nothing, and today it finally pays for itself. I know that you can write whatever you want under any title; you simply need to define your terms.

So these are my terms:

1) I'm not about to play the game and write a polemic against South London.
2) I'm not about to pretend that I love South London.
3) I am going to interpret the title as being indicative of how attached we get to the area that we call home, and how it comes to define us, to become a facet of our identity.

Let me try and unpick why I so stubbornly defend the charms of North London, even though South London may well be better than (or at least just as good as) north or east or west, and even though I may well end up living away from the northern part of the city.

I grew up in North London. My childhood and teenage years were spent in North London, with the odd foray into the centre. I wasn't aware of west, east nor south until I got older and started to explore the capital a little more. When I think of London, I think of the City and central. But when I think of home it's the north that forms the backdrop of that thought. Edgware (which, for the record, the journalist in the Time Out article refers to as 'proper' London), Mill Hill, Camden, Hampstead, Golders Green, Hendon, Finchley — these are the places that make up my emotional London. They're not my favourite places. Not by a long shot. My favourite area changes by day depending on what I'm doing, who I'm with, the weather. But North London will always be home, no matter where I'm living. Coming back from university in Manchester I always knew I was 'home' when we hit the sign to Edgware on the M1, or when I was on the Northern Line heading towards Edgware from Euston, blissfully surrounded by everyday chatter in a London accent.

We all know that the 'north versus south' debate isn't one confined to a particular city. There's all sorts of prejudices associated with these two polar compass points, with those prejudices varying depending on the context. My two best friends from university are from Warrington, near Manchester. There's a running joke between the three of us that I'm a southern softie from 'Lahndahn'. Apparently I once expressed surprise at how clever they both are because I thought everyone from up north was of sub-intelligence (I don't remember ever saying this and, if I did, I know myself well enough to know that I would have been playing with stereotypes for satirical effect. At least I hope I was). We joke about it through our language; after eight years it still throws me when they talk about having "tea" at 8:30 in the evening (that's "dinner" for us southern softies. What kind of an idiot calls dinner "tea" anyway?). My boss at work is a northerner, and mocks my accent when I say words like "bath", and I mock him back.

Physical locations define us through the experiences we had there, through the language we adopt there. My nursery, primary school, secondary school and sixth form were all melting pots of different ethnic, religious and national backgrounds. I didn't realise how very 'London' that was until I went to Manchester and met people from different areas of the UK where there was less of a mix of people, or started spending time in other cities where the population was typically Anglo-Saxon. I always feel slightly out of place in these areas. Not because I'm a hybrid of British, Israeli, Iranian, Polish, Russian and Austrian (they won't mind me saying this, but the two uni friends thought I was Indian when we first met because Warrington typically doesn't have mongrels like me). No, I feel out of place because I'm so used to being surrounded by people from all over the world, because I grew up thinking that that was the norm.

What's ironic is that we live in a time when technology has shrunk our world and globalisation and environmental issues have made us all global citizens (at least, in theory). Our food, our clothes, our gadgets, news, neighbours, everything is sourced from all over the world. What does my emotional allegiance to North London over South London, to London over the rest of Britain, really mean if I adopt the view that I'm a citizen of the world that just happens to have been born in a particular place? If my parents had had their way, I could have just as easily been born in Israel. And wouldn't this wider view of who we are eliminate all the false loyalties we have to postcodes, to travel zones, to cities, to countries, to continents? Wouldn't the world be happier and more peaceful if we recognised the fundamental biological similarities we all have rather than the differences that result from the accidents of the location of our birth or where we've chosen to live?

But it's funny, we become defined by the geography over which we lay our experiences. I was recently introduced to the concept of psychogeography from someone at work, which was defined by Guy Debord as:

...the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behavior of individuals.

It includes the idea that a physical location becomes steeped in the events that took place there. As an example, if you go into a church you're not just experiencing the bricks and mortar of the building. Rather, you're also experiencing years of religious fervour, of prayers, of hope, of devotion. This is why we go on pilgrimages, why we visit childhood homes long after we've moved on, why we have favourite cities, favourite places to go on holiday. We associate the physical location with our feelings about that place; we want to remember or feel closer to an intangible history by visiting a tangible location. It's probably why I recently had to talk myself out of spending £3,000 I don't have on a print by artist Stephen Walter called London Subterranea that is essentially a map of London annotated with its history.

Yes, we could rationally say that our attachment to geographical location is something that prevents us from achieving a greater unity as human beings, or even from just recognising that an area really is or isn't better than we feel it is. But humans aren't purely rational beings. We attach our emotions, our experiences — these intangible facets that are the parts that make up our sum — to tangible things: to locations, to books, to jewellery, to music.

So yes, South London may well be better than North London. I may well end up living there one day, particularly considering the ridiculous property prices in the north. But North London is me. I am North London. And no attempt from a South Londoner (who's actually from Bath) will make me think otherwise. How do you like them apples.

London Subterranea, by Stephen Walter

Image source: Tag Fine Arts Gallery

Anyone for a cuppa?

This is a horrendous cliche, but there's something that's so perfectly British about tea. It elicits fine bone china teapots, teacups and saucers, with delicately fragrant liquid, a dainty little milk jug, a fantastically decorated sugar spoon, a carefully laid out tea table in someone's house on a quiet Sunday afternoon. And, of course, polite conversation. Asking after one's family, one's work, one's health. But never dipping below the surface to discuss and debate the more intense subjects that make up a social minefield laden with potential faux pas.

There are, however, other teas and tea pots out there that lend themselves to more philosophical conversation and ways of living. The Tea House in Covent Garden is a little shrine to tea as a ritual, a concept that has a rich history in Japan. I'm a little ashamed (although not really) to admit I get a tad excited by a tea pot I bought a few years back, supported by an eccentric collection of loose leaf teas, and a few Japanese teacups. They beautifully lend themselves to creating your own little bubble of zen, sitting or lounging, sipping and pouring, and serenely discussing life, the universe and everything.

Coffee, on the other hand, has a more fiery past. London itself has its own history of the coffee house, where people would go to debate politics, ideologies, science, history, religion with friends and with strangers. There are even those that suggest that the Age of Enlightenment was fuelled by coffee and these coffee houses. This is also a scene that you see around (the more liberal) Middle-Eastern/Mediterranean countries, or the MidMed as my flatmate has labelled this cultural crossover; people sitting around in coffee houses or dropping in on each other unannounced, hands gesturing wildly with passion as politics and other topics of extreme opinion are heatedly debated over a hastily put together table heavy with coffee, juice, fruit and nuts.

I love this combination of MidMed/coffee house culture. I've already written about Foyles Cafe, and described one of the unexpected conversations I've had there as an example. Going to a coffee shop not to "grab" a coffee (a turn of phrase that appears to be rife in the busy city) but to sit there with a drink and either work, read or talk is a brilliant way of getting some headspace. I adore the history of it, the fact that ideas are born there. We're seeing the emergence of that same culture now over in Tech City in east London, where people gather together to discuss and share minds.

So why am I going on about the differences in culture around different teas and different coffees? It's actually related to my last post about impulse and serendipity. Out last Saturday night chatting to two good friends, the three of us had an epiphany. We never phone each other up on the spur of the moment to say, "What are you up to? Fancy going for a coffee?" We always assume the other is too busy, that we need to plan seeing each other. In that perfectly British polite way that lends itself so well to queuing, we don't want to impose on the others' day. Chatting about it, we realised the reality was more often than not that each of us is free and would love a coffee, or a drink of any kind; it's less about the beverage, more about the setting and the conversation.

The culture shock of the forwardness of someone from the MidMed is tangible, and can often offend even the stiffest of British sensibilities. But they've got something right. The passion and the spontaneity of their get-togethers and their conversation lends itself to meeting up informally before then finding yourself having your opinion challenged, being offended, being forced to defend your corner. Going back to the history of coffee houses in London, how can you know what you believe, how do you know what you stand for, until you're challenged or until you hear a new idea that you find yourself agreeing with? Asking after family and health and work is all important, but how can you really know someone and know yourself until confronted with something you don't agree with or that excites you by its truth?

If you're with friends or with strangers, there's no need for ceremony. Of course, you need to be respectful of others' opinions; otherwise you're just arguing and attempting to preach and impose your own way of thinking, without being open to new thoughts. And I'm a great believer in the more realistic shades of grey within any debate that can't be tied up with pretty ribbons as you dust off your hands at a job done, as opposed to backing extreme black and white ways of looking at the world. Nor have we always got the luxury of sitting around for hours waxing lyrical. But if you've got time to kill and you're wondering what to do, why not head down to the nearest coffee house, grab the nearest friend (not literally, as that may lead to an awkward court case and subsequent restraining order), abandon the norms of polite conversation, and see where the next few hours take you.

Image source: I Heart Pencils blog

Here's to serendipity

How often do you follow impulse? I don’t mean a "If that guy sniffs that way one more time I’m going to deck him", desperate ‘I just can’t take it anymore!’ impulse. Or even a bargain-hunting "What?! 100 kilos of dolphin-friendly flaked tuna for £9.99!" impulse. These are the kind that may possibly wind you up in front of a jury, in jail, or drowning in a lifetime’s supply of tuna-mayo-sweetcorn sandwiches. Rather, I mean the "I wonder where that walkway goes?" or "What do I really feel like doing now?" impulse. The sort of unplanned moment where serendipity can sneak in by the side-door and surprise you with a bouquet of flowers, a foot massage, and an offer to take your grandparents out for tea and scones.

This isn’t for the faint of heart. Are you a meticulous planner, who knows the times of the local trains down to the minute? Do you know what you’re doing to the day weeks, no months, in advance? Does an inexplicable twitchiness take hold if an unexpected event throws up the potential of deviating from your beautifully drawn out itinerary? If so, you may want to look away now.

The above character sketch is alien to me. I have tried to be that person. Jokes about being a commitmentphobe aside, there’s something about always knowing what I’m going to be doing at any given time – and not being able to be flexible around that timetable – that makes me a little nervous. I’m not incapable of doing it; I’ll take on the role of planner and organiser if I must, and I’m happy to get out the diary to pencil in a dinner with friends. But I’ll need a little room to manoeuvre, the ability to tinker with the plans last minute, the flexibility for us to choose where we’re going on the day, rather than in advance.

This isn’t to say I’m an untrustworthy person, who’ll bail on you last minute on a whim. Let me elaborate: I think there’s an intimate connection between not being wedded to intricate plans, having an innate curiosity about the world around you, embracing impulse, and serendipity.

An illustrative story for you:

A good university friend of mine came to stay with me in London over Easter weekend. She’s from Warrington, is currently living and working in Berlin, has been to London a few times but hasn’t ever really ‘done’ the city as a camera-carrying tourist. I’d come up with a rough plan of which sights we could see, as we have similar interests. But we agreed we’d simply see which way the wind (and the rain) blew us on the day.

Bar a lie on the Sunday morning (bed… so… very… comfortable...) we got off to a good start with the Tube down to Westminster to gawp at the Houses of Parliament. On the cards next was a wander down South Bank, back over to St Paul’s Cathedral and then a Thames Clipper down to North Greenwich to see The O2 (formerly known as The Millennium Dome), before jumping on the Tube back home.

We may not have completely stuck to my finger-in-the-air plan. In turns out much of the day was influenced by my complete inability to locate places I’ve been to before, as well as my friend's craving for Nando’s. By way of justification for the latter, apparently there’s only one in the whole of Berlin; she was suffering withdrawal symptoms. There was also the crushing realisation that our mid-20’s joints can apparently no longer walk for more than three hours at a time. All was not lost however. It meant she also got to see the buildings around Whitehall, for a start. I rediscovered a beautiful, enchanted part of St James’ Park I stumbled upon over a year ago but hadn’t been able to relocate. Buckingham Palace also made an appearance (driven by the Nando’s urge, not my broken compass), as did Trafalgar Square. Even more unexpectedly, we found ourselves listening to the choir boys in Westminster Abbey during an Easter Sunday service. As well as lots of other lovely discoveries in between.

I hadn’t planned to do anything of these things. But they added to what turned out to be a lovely, relaxing day of sightseeing, minus the calls we’ll be making to our doctors requesting hip-replacements. All stemmed from a militaristic about-turn halfway down Westminster Bridge in order to hunt down the nearest Nando’s, and both of us then listening to our ‘I wonder what’s through there?’ impulse.

One of the things I'm seeking to capture in my rambling monologues is this very attitude – following the twists and turns of a city, as well as embracing feelings of impulse and curiosity. Cities are made for exploration, to be walked, made for discovery. One of the many things I love about London is the way its history is pinned proudly to its sleeve, forcing its way into your consciousness every step of the way. Another facet of my love affair with the city is that it’s grown organically throughout that history. Paradoxically, the result is a beautiful patchwork of architecture, culture and experiences lying in wait to be uncovered by the curious flaneur.

So many times over the last year I’ve almost ignored that twinge of "Ooooh I wonder what’s down there?" or "That sounds like it could be good" whilst out and about. Almost ignored. I’ve not yet been disappointed when I’ve listened to that childlike questioning in my head that wants to explore anything and everything. Like Alice heading down the rabbit hole, saying to herself "curiouser and curiouser", if a hidden walkway between shops looks promising, I’ll duck into it (note I said "promising" and not "dark, mysterious and foreboding". Safety first folks.) If I see a sign to an exhibition that sounds interesting I’ll do my best to check it out there and then or, if I’m unable to, I’ll go back to it when I can.  If a busker is playing music I like the sound of, I’ll try and sit a little to listen. Back to my ‘Headphones out, boys' post, I once managed to get the contact details of a book publisher for a friend after switching my music off on a whim. Nothing may come of following the impulse, but then what have you got to lose?

There’s so much that can come out of seeing the world in this way, outside of wandering a city. Some of the best photographs, for example, have been taken on impulse rather than planned. The Internet works on this philosophy, that you discover content you didn’t know you were looking for until you stumble upon it, after following a desire line of hyperlinks. Much like the other thread that runs through this blog – finding happiness in small things – I’m hoping to share more of my discoveries through the little stories I post here.  For now, I'll just say that if you embrace distraction and impulse – if you listen to the Alice in your head that wants to head down the rabbit hole – then who knows what you may find, what you may learn, what you may discover. You may well be pleasantly surprised by the serendipity that greets you when you reach the bottom.

A few photos from our lost but found Sunday

Looking out from the little cottage in St James' Park, rediscovered

Next to the rediscovered part of St James' Park

Curvature in buildings, something you see all around London 

Cutting through Whitehall Gardens

A patchwork of building styles in the Dean's Yard of Westminster Abbey

Choirboys running after finishing their choiring in Westminster Abbey

A grave laid in Westminster Abbey in 1082

A different view of the Houses of Parliament after cutting through another garden

The view after a detour over Lambeth Bridge, whilst hunting down a Thames Clipper

"We're by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen"

45 minutes spent standing up. Pulse rate reaching levels that would be regarded as unhealthy considering no exercise is being undertaken. And then, with barely seconds to go...

"YYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"

60,000 people - minus a small black and white striped contingent and not including god knows how many others watching around the world - erupt in a single, united, delirious cheer. Hands that have been hovering nervously between the back of your head, in front of your mouth, and covering your eyes for the past 95 minutes are now waving madly and mindlessly in the air. You're jumping up and down, screaming like a person possessed, making noises that wouldn't be misunderstood by a caveman contemplating the most efficient way of ambushing a mammoth. Once the initial delirium has passed, the whole stadium finds itself singing at the tops of their voices. And, even after the final whistle blows and the players have left the field, red and white scarves are still being held in the air and everyone is beaming breathlessly.

And all because a defender that's spent most of the season injured has just managed to get a ball over a painted white line into the back of a net, meaning the boys have yet again managed to come from behind to win and are now just a single point behind their arch rivals.

If you read my last post, and stuck with it to the bitter end, you'll know that I am of course talking about the Arsenal boys.

I'm not going to take up the next four minutes of your life raving about how much I love them, swooning over the way they take their fans through the whole heartbreaking spectrum of emotions each game, each season, each transfer window. And I'm not going to go anywhere near the fact we've not won any silverware for the past seven years (...although the Emirates Cup counts, right?) If you really want to know how it feels to be an Arsenal fan, may I point you in the direction of Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch. He captures it far more eloquently than I ever could. The book actually served as therapy after a particularly harrowing 8-2 mauling earlier in the season... "Ah yes, that's why we put up with this shit year after year."

But after the euphoria of our (yes, that's right - "our") 2-1 win against Newcastle at home, I felt that this blog wouldn't be complete without a post that expanded just a smidgen on this joy of mine.

For the record, and for those that don't know me, let me just share with you that I am of the female persuasion (ie I'm a woman) and I am in my mid-20s. I know what the offside rule is, including the vagaries of the 'inactive' position. And, whilst I can't artfully dissect the tactics of a game like Andy Gray and his fancy-pants technology (at least, before that incident), I know enough to feel relieved when I see the boys remembering to press in midfield, or to feel nervous when the defence is holding their line a little too high up the field for comfort. In fact, by way of illusrating my commitment to Arsenal, watching a game at Craven Cottage for the first time - whilst surprisingly enjoyable - felt a little too close to adultery for my liking. Although it's not stopped me from taking it up as an infrequent guilty pleasure. Much like a mistress that you keep in a flat in the city for the odd sordid night away from the missus, before skulking back as you remember just how much you actually love your spouse, and should probably stop taking them for granted.

I passionately disagree with the sentiment that just because I enjoy football I'm a boy (if you're reading this, you know who you are) and hopefully I'm living proof that not all football fans are mindless hooligans. Oh yes, it may seem impossible, but a love of football can indeed originate from the same heart and mind that loves reading books and going to museums. The lady in question that calls me a boy whenever I get a little too vocal about Arsenal is a very bright (if somewhat gullible) young person. By the end of the game I took her to, she was chanting "Robin van Persie!" at the top of her voice and telling the referee precisely why he was doing such a poor job, completely swept away in the joy of the experience.

I'm not going to attempt to unpick the pyschology of the person who willingly spends their hard-earned money on tacky-looking memorabilia, questionable stadium food, and would willingly risk valued relationships rather than miss a game. And I'm not going to touch on the dangerous nature of mob mentality. Nor do I condone the disgraceful violence (physical and verbal) that some seem to think is acceptable when faced with opposing fans, or indeed a dodgy referring decision.

Nonetheless, there is something very pure about the moment your team creates those little moments of beauty; that cheeky little back heel, that stunning volley, an intricate weaving around countless defenders, or short and sweet tic tac toe (or 'Ole!') football. And it's the same whether you're an Arsenal fan, a Sunday League fan, or in fact any type of sports fan. Rationally, you know it's silly, meaningless and that you shouldn't be expending so much emotional energy on something you have absolutely no control over. But my god. It feels good, doesn't it?

A pause to reflect and wax lyrical

A little navel-gazing never hurt anyone (unless done whilst driving at high speeds), so I figure it's about time I actually wrote a little bit on what this blog is all about. Mentally prepare yourself for some seriously philosophical musing.

My first post aside — I still twitch everytime the toddler reaches for the music player —  I've thus far waxed lyrical on: the serendipity that can ensue when you take your headphones out; those of us that have a fetish for stationery; and, of course, advocated abusing your books.

The name of this blog, L'art de Vivre, wasn't chosen because I enjoy throwing around the odd French phrase to try and make myself sound cultured and worldly, a la Del Boy or various others (see what I did there, surreptitiously throwing in a sweet little "a la" in the hope no-one would notice?). And if the occasion does call for use of a non-English phrase, I hope and I pray that I resist the temptation to attempt to say it in its proper accent, thus trying to be respectful of the language yet somehow unintentionally achieving a mild form of racism ('l'esprit de l'escalier' is a particularly beautiful phrase, although I've not yet had the guts to try to use it).
Instead I chose L'art de Vivre because the concept of the 'the art of living' is one that truly struck a chord with me. All joking aside, surely there's enough that's serious and depressing in this world and in our daily lives without not stopping to truly enjoy and recognise the things that make us happy every now and again. And then giving ourselves the permission to actually enjoy them. So this is what I'm trying to get at with my monologues on fountain pens, paperbacks and talking to strangers in coffee shops. These are things that I, and others that I know, get enjoyment out of but don't necessarily always acknowledge that we do so.

I first stumbled across the phrase l'art de vivre in a post about detaching yourself from your work last year:

A French colleague once explained l'art de vivre (the art of living) to me. Enjoying small things on a daily basis — such as good bread, a favourite café, lovely flowers, using a nice pen, a brisk walk home, reading a book to your child, dinner with your partner, an hour to yourself with a glass of wine...

And just reading that little snippet, something inside me sparked in the way it does when you suddenly hear a new idea that subtly changes the way you look at the world, that shifts something fundamental within you. The other two phrases I referred to in my first post were: la dolce vita, which I came across in the book Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert (which, for the record, I didn't particularly enjoy) and means the good life, a life full of pleasure and indulgence; and a flâneur, which rather beautifully refers to the activity of walking the streets of a city in order to experience it, and is a notion I learned of in my undergraduate History degree. This triumvirate of concepts — enjoying the small things in life; living a life of pleasure; and truly experiencing a city by wandering aimlessly through its streets — have stayed with me. Funnily enough, on hearing them they gave me a feeling of joy that I'm trying to get across here. And so when it came to thinking through what I resolved to do in 2012, living my life more by these three little philosophies seemed as good a way to go as any.

I've always enjoyed the 'small things' and joked about the fact that I'm easily pleased by simple pleasures. It's when you suddenly find yourself smiling at something in the moment: an experience, an emotion, something you've heard or something you've seen. It comes out of the blue, and it's the recognition that you unexpectedly feel a little lighter on your feet, have taken a deep breath at the pleasure of it, are smiling to yourself, and for a few seconds that you were completely immersed in the experience, all other thoughts let go of. I never thought much of it but, actually, aren't these the little moments that keep us sane, keep us from getting completely caught up in the various stresses of daily life? That — dare I suggest it — make us happy?

I'm not necessarily advocating living the sort of hedonistic life that Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray himself would have blushed at; we all have our own moral compasses, and they guide what we choose to do and the way we are with the people around us. As long as you're not harming others, I reckon live and let live. And I'm not naiive enough to think that all the world's ills would be cured if only we all allowed ourselves a two-hour bath on the odd occasion. I'm also painfully aware that this comes across as a particularly privileged way of looking at the world. But one of the things that struck me when reading Gregory David Roberts' Shantaram was the unshakeable happiness of Prabu, Roberts' happy-go-lucky guide to life in Mumbai, despite living in one of India's notorious slums. Again, I'm not romantacising the harsh realities of life. I'm simply saying that whatever our circumstances, whatever our bank balances, whether we live in a remote village or a bustling city, surely there can be no harm in pausing to recognise the happiness a piece of bread dipped in oil can bring us, or when the sun shines closing our eyes and turning our faces to the sky, or if it's raining then fleetingly enjoying the feel of that before we run for cover?

One of my all-time favourite books, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, was given to me as a present by my cousin and is an all-time favourite precisely because it reminds us what it is to see the world through the eyes of a child. As one of my brother's observed on Twitter when the snow hit London earlier this year:

The moment #snow no longer instils a sense of giddy joy in you is the moment you become a legitimate adult #whoopforfrozenwaterintheair

He's 23 years old. I think we run the risk of losing this sense of wonder as soon as we refuse to recognise what the small things are that bring us a few seconds of joy before we resume our daily grind, whatever form that may take — both the few seconds of joy and the daily grind.

As I was mulling over what I wanted to write in this post last week, I stumbled across an article by Robert Crampton entitled Beta male: a few of my favourite things (I may as well be honest seeing as we're talking about small joys - I was flipping through The Times Magazine on the loo, as I'd left my iPhone elsewhere. Admit it. We all do it). This is basically a list of things that make Crampton happy. At first I was a little peeved, as he's basically done what I'm doing in this blog and most likely gotten paid for it, albeit my ramblings are a lot less succinct and I'm not a recognised journalist, or a journalist at all for that matter. Even more blasphemously he finishes off the article with what will hopefully be a familiar sentiment by now, saying that these are all unimportant things that he enjoys but that it's the small things that matter, particularly as you get older. The heathen! The thief! Then to make matters even worse, my very own 'beta male' friend said yesterday, totally unprompted and without influence from me or Crompton, his next post is going to be on the things that make him happy. Is there no end to the intellectual thievery!

Seriously though, both those encounters actually made me feel that warmness when you've suddenly recognised a kindred spirit. That someone else looks at the world, at least partly, in a similar way to you and isn't afraid to go out and say what it is that makes them happy.

So that's my tome for this week over, normal service shall now resume with what will most likely be a post on photography once I sit down to write it.

In the meantime, here's my own quick list of a small number of things that bring me uncomplicated joy, just off the top of my head:

The mini daffodils that pop up in the most unlikely of places this time of year. The smell and feel of clean sheets on a bed. A clever turn of phrase, linking old ideas together in new ways to make new ideas, surreal banter between friends that goes off on tangents. Seeing strangers talk to each other or help each other in a way that respects that we're all human as opposed to asking them to "please move down the carriage", or simply brushing past each other. The way that the girlfriend of one of my brothers enters some weird and wonderful place of childlike joy when she's overtired, coming up with all sorts of fantastic ideas and phrases. The heart-breaking comfort of holding a baby or a toddler, or seeing the look of mischievous joy on the faces of children let loose on the wary public. The joy of handing back said baby or toddler or knowing that those children high on sugar running around the cafe aren't mine. The witty phrases and observations my mother comes out with, watching my grandmother knit cardigans and hats for her two great granddaughters, the crude jokes my grandfather makes, the crude jokes my father makes. Overhearing my brother practice the guitar in another room, catching my other brother's eye in recognition of an unspoken shared thought. Crossing over Tower Bridge after work with the right song playing in my ears. The feeling of doing precisely whatever it is that I want to be doing and the knowledge that no-one I know is actually aware of where I am and that at that moment I have no-one to answer to. Spending time away from the world totally immersed in a book. Summer evenings on the porch with my best friend and a bottle (or two) of wine and Haribo Tangfastics. The suddenness of realising we've both just cackled together in exactly the same way at a funny joke or idea. Arsenal playing their beautiful football. Thierry Henry.

... I'd better stop as this is becoming more than a little self-indulgent. If I were to say to you, "Tell me something that brings you pure joy, tell me right now. Go!" what's the first thing that comes to you? What are the many things that come to you? (Steady now). There's an unassuming comment box below if the mood grabs you to write them down.