By Madeleine Baber, Y11
I am acutely aware of the modern day need for constant joy. An endless stream of endorphins, dopamine, serotonin that supplies our brains as we make our way from entertaining spectacle to entertaining spectacle.
Especially in trying times of crisis, such as this, it seems as though we are ever hungry for some form of up kick, something to bring an instant smile to our face. Something to ‘uplift’ us.
As a self-proclaimed cynic, I struggle to engage with this culture of uplifting. I find, for me at least, the happiness I feel does not and cannot come pre-packaged, daintily gift-wrapped. I refuse to have it injected into me, syringed into my veins, at least not by anyone other than myself.
I believe, it is time to come to terms with the fact that, if I want my happiness to be a beautifully flowing river, I must first accept that a river is supplied by a network of small, rock-filled, muddy streams that cascade down steep hills when heavy rain infects into the grooves of the earth.
For me, those little streams used to take the form of my bi-weekly after-school café visits with friends. Every Tuesday, Thursday and, on some rare occasions, Monday, an ever-varying in size group of us would sit, hurriedly huddled (tucked away from the bitter winter weather) around a single chai latte or green tea, which would gradually grow cold, inevitably ignored over loud, abrasive chatter.
As both their best, and worst customers, we were kicked out only once. The employees always tolerated our loitering (calling us, what I hope was affectionately, ‘the party’) unless it was a busy day. Then, we were told, ‘Guys if you’re not going to buy anything, you’ll have to leave.’
Slightly offended, mostly understanding, we did, scattering out onto the drizzle coated streets.
Next to the café, there is an art gallery – one room, full of adorable, but otherwise fairly useless bespoke trinkets, furniture and paintings. Otherwise known as ‘tat.’
The man who, I assume, owns the place isn’t the kind of man you would expect to be an art enthusiast. He was small, old, rather scruffy in appearance, hunched, had big blue eyes that bulged over the frames of his small spectacles, he reminded me distinctly of a wizard. He also, most notably, had a thick eastern European accent and was quite limited in his knowledge of English.
The moment we entered, the little bell above the door jingling to announce us, it was as if life was breathed into him and he became animated.
Bearing in mind that we were mostly in the shop as a way to shelter ourselves from an oncoming rainstorm, I expected that once he realised we were penniless teenagers, he would become irritated by our presence and feel as though we were wasting his time.
This is not what happened, however. Instead, he seemed intrigued by us and remained bright and jovial, despite knowing that we would buy nothing. He allowed us to meander throughout his little shop, to explore his collection, to leave grubby little fingerprints all over his trinkets. He asked us questions, genuine questions about us, our lives, our day. I remember how his big eyes glistened with playful glee as he asked about our love lives, who was dating who.
And, when we immediately began hounding on Will about his persistent crush on Agnes, he laughed along with us, smirking as if he was a life-long friend and not a stranger.
In the end, he offered us each a biscuit, or maybe more than just one in my case. They were ginger flavoured, organic, heart-shaped (for it was nearing on Valentine’s Day), I believe, homemade by him and, most delightfully for our empty pockets and empty stomachs, free.
When we left, each of us munching our profit from the visit and laughing, I felt the apples of my cheeks prominent and rosy in correspondence with my smile.
I do not think I will ever meet that kind man, who sheltered us from the cold and welcomed us to waste his time and space, again. I believe that, even if I did neither of us would recognise the other.
But of this I am certain: no perfect, storybook happy ending, nor any attempt by the outside world to pump me with artificial, forced happiness will uplift me so much as ginger biscuits will, for, after this event, I do believe they have become one of my favourites.
This was the winning entry in our Positive Words Writing Competition. A huge well done to Maddie, who receives a £60 Amazon voucher. And well done and thank you to everyone who entered. We really loved reading all your work.
Photos by andrea di and Gabriele Diwald on Unsplash