Look, Up In The Sky! It's A - Pony?

Horses change lives. They give our young people confidence and self-esteem. They provide peace and tranquility to troubled souls, they give us hope. Toni Robinson

I think it would be safe to say that the past week could be put down in the annals of history as 'One of The Most Craptacular Weeks On Record. Ever. Full Stop. No Mucking Around Here, People, I'm Talking Crud In A Calendar'. It would also be fairly accurate to predict that the next seven days aren't going to contain a hell of a lot of unicorns and lollipops either, because the universe has a nasty habit of doing horrible things to good people; and whilst I am not a good person, I have incredibly good people in my life, and they are hurting.

I call all this general awfulness the Blergh. You know when you have just woken up, and five seconds after the feeling of blank 'who the hell am I?' passes you remember how spectacularly horrible things are? That's the Blergh. And boy, does the Big B seem to be on the rise at the moment, and making a run for the winner's podium. The Blergh is happiest when we are miserable; it thrives on tears and sadness and pain.

So when something silly happens amongst the sadness and fury, it seems to me we need to clutch onto absurdity with both hands and make the most of it. There's nothing the Blergh hates more than laughter; it is anathema to its very being. And if you want absurd, then taking a My Little Pony called - wait for it - Sunset Shimmer out and about for a drink pretty much hits the spot.

The background of receiving said Sunset Shimmer is impossible to explain; suffice to say I uttered the magic words beloved of 9 to 12 year old girls everywhere, and before you could repeat 'please include at least one accessory and a comb for her magnificent mane', young Shimmery was on my doorstep.

I wanna pony!

Admittedly I had envisaged an actual pony, but that's beside the point.

I don't think she would have survived the trip in the mail. The bag didn't have any air holes.

When I saw said eminent equine, I laughed until I cried. Then I think I cried until I laughed, because as I said, the Blergh has been in the ascendant all week. And I realised that even the dark dingy days have big fat sunshiny spots in them if you let the absurd in. Slowly that bloody Blergh seemed to recede just a little bit to a more manageable size - even if it was with a bad grace and muttering to itself as it did so.

The end of the week has seen Sunset Shimmer join the clan, although not without sideways looks from Osky the Spycat, who isn't sure whether he wants to eat her or throw her around the room. I'm sure both options will be attempted in the near future.

It has seen me get weirded out by all the bizarre things grown men do with My Little Ponies (thanks colleague of The Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant for that line of information - no, really. DIDN'T NEED TO KNOW. EVER.)

But mainly it has seen, despite the continuing presence of sadness - which truly, truly does have a taste and texture all of its own - a receding of the Blergh's pervasive undertow, which can pull our legs from under us with unmatchable swiftness.

Beat the Blergh any way you can. Whether it's by hugging your cat, your kids, your Dr Whovian-ish whoever...

Or with a little plastic horse.

Of course.

Hi, ho Shimmer. Away!

A Heart That Loves Is Always Young

True love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops. - William Goldman, The Princess Bride

I will freely admit, before you get too far into this post, that it is, to paraphrase THE BEST MOVIE OF ALL TIME (see above quote if you are one of the ignorami)...

A kissing blog.

Strictly speaking it is about love, but there is some kissing in here, so if the thought of puckering up, buttercup, makes you want to avert your eyes in horror, then turn away now and read something else.

Maybe something about footy. Or Gina Rinehart making the Forbes Most Influential Star Wars Characters List. Or Tony Abbott and Christopher Pyne (if that mental image doesn't help you stop thinking about smoochy stuff, nothing will).

For those of you who would rather begin the beguine, here goes.

The title of this blog comes directly from a Greek proverb. It is probably not an accurate translation; there probably isn't an accurate translation. Much like Catullus's odi et amo, it is a phrase which really only resonates in its original form. But for those of us who love to love, we try to put at least a poor shadow of meaning to it in whichever tongue we embrace as our own.

Too often we see those whose hearts have grown old. It is an inexplicable sadness, because a heart that loses the ability to embrace others loses elasticity. It becomes hardened and coarse; its walls thicken and atrophy. It becomes deaf to the voices of those who would wish to see the beauty of its beat.

A heart which only knows how to say 'I hate' or perhaps even worse 'I don't care' builds a thick shell of hurt and apathy which ends in youth and summertime disappearing - and winter cold setting in.

A heart that does not love ends up dying.

I think I wrote on Valentine's Day, which usually fills me with horror and dread, about the fact that maybe as a day it provided people who find it hard to say 'I love you' out loud with a chance to - well, keep their hearts young. A Hallmark Holiday was perhaps an outlet for them to express themselves because for some reason, ordinarily, it was too hard for them to find the right words, or the right time, or the right place.

The more I think about this, the more I call 'bah humbug'.

If you have a heart that loves, show it. Give of your all. Don't hide behind convention and a sense of embarrassment at actually admitting you genuinely care for the person you're with. I'm not talking about taking each others' clothes off in public (well, in daylight at least) - but you know what? If you feel like disco boogying down the aisles of the local Coles, then go for it. Throw in a kiss or two while you're at it.

A heart that loves is always young. And quite possibly perennially stuck in the 70s, but that's a personal choice.

Hug each other like you will never hug again. Kiss deeply and kiss often (here's the kissy part). Throw your partner down towards the ground like the fab 'end of World War Two sailor pashes girl' iconic image. Write bad poetry. Better yet make use of the infinite resources of the interwebs and find good poetry and spout it.

Keep your heart eternally young.

Whether you are 18 or 80, if you are lucky enough to know that bolt of lightning, that kick galvanic - don't waste it. Otherwise you will end up with something tragic.

A muscle which does nothing more than pump blood around your body and keep you alive. With no kisses.

What a tragic fate that would be.

Better Red Than Dead

While the rest of the species is descended from apes, redheads are descended from cats. - Mark Twain

Yesterday afternoon, yet again, the bathroom masqueraded as the finest hair salon in town, as Kate On Limited Cash did some thoughtful grey hair coverage, chatted to herself about what she was up to on the weekend (working), what she thought about the budget (nothing that bears repeating in polite company), and how excited she was about the current Wallabies squad, which her stylist completely understood because it was, after all, her. It's quite nice being your own hairstylist at times. You talk about the things that interest you.

Later on, the exclusive salon closely resembled the customary bloodbath/shower scene from Psycho, because let's face it, you don't go red without a little bit of...

Mess.

Who am I kidding.

Buffalo Bill could have been in there crooning 'it puts the lotion in the basket, it puts the lotion IN THE BASKET, yes it does, doesn't it Precious' and making himself an entire new prom dress, and nobody would have noticed. It was a copper-tinged Armageddon.

Naturally I arose like an auburn Phoenix at the end of this process, and promptly posted proof to all forms of social media, complete with new specs, which allowed me to see that I had adequately covered the yuck grey under the red, and that black and white was a better photo option than colour for those who might find very pale skin and red hair a bit challenging with their dinnertime glass of cab sauv.

For those who say that redheads are satanic, this should be adequate proof that we are, in fact, on the side of the angels.

Why do redheads get such a bad rap? Some of the most fabulous women ever to grace the annals of the ages have been rangas; and yes, I am going to mention our first female Prime Minister, because like her or loathe her, she did make history. Lucille Ball. Carol Burnett. Margaret Sanger, who lived to see the birth control pill legalised. Cleopatra (yes, really). Bernadette Peters. Emily Dickinson. My darling Katharine Hepburn. Emma Stone. And of course...

Elizabeth I. Gloriana. She may have only had the body of a woman, but by God she made mischief for a hell of a lot of men's hearts and stomachs.

Redheads rock. They rock. Every single redhead I know has a temper that could shake the trees - but not one of them sulks. They are cynics, but they get a joke faster than anyone else I know. They are generous. They are kind. They are fiercely, fiercely loyal, to their friends and their partners.

And they wear a little black dress like a panther prowling through a roomful full of prey.

Lucille Ball said 'Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead.'

This is true.

If he's very lucky, she'll fall in love right back.

Purr.

Mother's Little Helper

Maybe it's just a daughter's job to piss off her mother. - Chuck Palahniuk, Diary

I already know one thing for certain before I even start writing the bulk of this post.

I am in deep, deep guano for the photo I have used. Which is brilliant, because what I wanted to write about is a tribute to my beautiful, forbearing mother - Big P, and her boundless patience, on today, the Day of the Mumsy. I want to express just how much this woman, like a koala, bears, when it comes to the vagaries of her delightful family - namely the Kennebec, the Artist Formerly Known by A Name Which Is No Longer Politically Correct (my brother) - and me.

Her only daughter. Her pride (?) and joy (double question marks, followed by ferocious glugging of non-alcoholic beverages, which P pretends are booze in the vague hope that she can wipe out memories of things like the state of my bedroom in my teenage years).

Me. Variously referred to over the years as facetious, obstreperous, a disgusting little pig (with respect to the state of my bedroom), and on one memorable occasion, a word that sounds like witch, but isn't.

Which may I add was thoroughly deserved, and has probably been said in my darling Mama's head on a weekly basis, and again not without fair reason.

For a woman who really doesn't swear, what can I say?

You seriously dipped out. Between Dad's 'bloody hells' and my brother and myself's absolutely foul mouthed imprecations, the world has really not been kind to a woman of quite graceful manners. I mean, I attempted to pretend that you had some kind of influence on me, but soon enough the truth was out.

I have a mouth on me like, as you are wont to say, a 'very old and disgusting trooper' so we shall just acknowledge that you stay well away when I am watching any form of sport and leave it at that.

This past year has not been kind to our family. It has in fact been much like that word I referred to earlier.

A bit of a witch.

As usual though, you have handled everything thrown at you - deaths, despair, a bit more despair, various diagnoses, some more despair, and just for the hell of it, some despair - with your customary aplomb. A little bit less humour? Maybe. But God almighty, it's been a five star shocker hasn't it Mum? Let's not mince words. Sometimes for your sake I wish you drank so that you had a nice alcoholic cushion to fall back into. But no. For you, the year has been faced clear eyed and head on.

You make me laugh, P. Sometimes your unwavering strength makes me cry, and even want to scream because I just don't have it, and I feel weak beside you because of it.

You are an amazing mother. You are an amazing partner to my father. You are the backbone, the steel spine of this family, and I know that often we forget to tell you this; sometimes we even forget to tell you the most important thing of all, because you are too busy telling us with your actions.

We love you.

You rock like a rocky thing, Mumsy.

Just don't thump me for putting dodgy photos of you halfway around the world.

Ouch.

B...

Witch.

At The Traffic Lights

Maybe that was why she couldn't cry, she realised, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling. Because what was the point in crying when there was no one there to comfort you? And what was worse, when you couldn't even comfort yourself? - Cassandra Clare, City of Glass

This week, the news has swung between - well, I wish I could say the sublime and the ridiculous, but honestly?

It's been 99% idiocy, with the remaining 1% - the important part... made up of of pure, unadulterated misery.

I am not going to talk about the 99%. We all know what has made headlines; two grown men brawling in the street like puffed up pitbulls who are blind-eyed and blind-brained. Whilst in the background, the silent tears and screams of lost young girls halfway across the world continue to go largely unanswered by a government which doesn't quite know how to find them (despite somewhat 'pushed' heroic efforts of late), or how to answer a madman, who without compunction or fear of recrimination takes more girls.

Human trafficking is a reality. Girls being sold into slavery for use as prostitutes and 'wives' to religious extremists and paedophiles is a reality. In the US alone, according to the FBI, there are currently an estimated 293,000 children at risk of being exploited and trafficked for sex. Forty percent of all human trafficking cases opened for investigation between January 2008 and June 2010 were for the sexual trafficking of a child - and the majority of them are girls between the ages of 12 and 14. It is considered less risky - and more profitable - to sell girls than it is to sell hard drugs.

This is in a first world country.

In 2001, UNICEF estimated 1.75 million individuals were deemed to be living in 'sexual slavery' worldwide. In 2009, India's federal police estimated there were 1.9 million children (under the age of 12) working as prostitutes.

Now think of somewhere like Nigeria. Think of a man (if you can call him that) who boasts on camera of what he has done with over 200 young girls. Who openly says that women should not be educated. That their place is as wives. To be silent and to breed the next generation of fighters. To serve men.

To serve.

Who can make daughters, sisters, beloved girls - simply disappear.

It is impossible to imagine what those young women are going through - thankfully. For anyone who has been impacted by rape or abuse, they would have some idea of the terror and that is a hell in itself. I am thankful for the number of decent, amazing men from all religions and all countries who have stood up openly and said 'this is not right. No women, no girl - no child - should be treated this way.'

But will it stop what is happening? No. Because there is a demand for tears.

Imagine nobody being interested when you cry. Or worse -

Enjoying it.

Please continue to say 'this is not right.' Please continue to say 'you cannot treat human beings this way.' Say it loudly, say it publicly. Use social media for all it's worth. Sign the petitions to the UN. Say it to people who matter. Applaud the men in your life who are kind, and of worth, and who behave in private the way they behave in public. Don't underestimate what this means.

Maybe, just maybe, one day the human traffic lights will stop being green - and will finally stay on red.

Boko Haram will belong in the realm of Grimm. 250 Nigerian girls will get to come home.

And have their tears wiped away.

Shoes & Sensibility

I do not know that I shall execute Martha's commission at all, for I am not fond of ordering shoes; and, at any rate, they shall all have flat heels. - Sunday, June 2, 1799, Jane Austen's letter to her sister Cassandra from Bath.

I love Jane Austen's writing. When I think of this clever, sly, witty, wry woman secretly writing her equally clever, sly, witty, wry observational novels under cover of embroidery, or doing household accounts, or reading some improving volume of boring yuck such as Fordyce's Sermons, and having to quickly whip away her pages of manuscript when someone entered the room - well. The modern mind boggles.

However. I so wish Miss Austen was kicking around on Goodreads today for several reasons - not least of which is the fact that she died far too soon, and without experiencing many of the things her heroines so happily encountered - but mainly because she left so many things unanswered in her fabulous down to earth fables. And one of these things just does not make sense, peeps.

Why, dear Miss Austen, do you never discuss shoes in your stories? I realise that others have bemoaned the fact that you pretty much ignore the Napoleonic Wars other than an occasional reference to how much loot an eligible Naval officer has pulled in - this even though Emma was published in the year Waterloo was fought and won, and you yourself had two brothers serving in the Royal Navy, eventually rising to the rank of Admiral. Perhaps you were bored senseless by Charles and Frank droning on about Trafalgar, who knows? Yo ho ho and a bottle of yawn (believe me, I am with you there sister).

But to ignore footwear... well.

Really. There's just no excusing that lapse of reason.

Did you not like shoes? Did you not have a fascination with the whole handmade kid slipper scenario? I mean, you devote a whole section in Pride and Prejudice to Lizzy's muddy petticoats, so why not chat about how stuffed her poor little boots were? I shudder at the thought of what they went through... I actually sympathise (just a tad) with prissy pants Mademoiselle Bingles in that respect.

That gives me a thought. Maybe you were mean about Caroline Bingley because she resembled a friend of yours who had nicer shoes than you. Transference issues eh Jane? Look, you should have just told her that her shoes were 'so 1798' and perhaps Caz may have been less unpleasant - who knows?

Because secretly, I think you loved shoes. The letter to your sister about Martha? Methinks the lady doth protest too much. She just knows they will be flat soled, blergh shoes and nobody is interested in that kind of malarkey. We want satin, and high insteps, and ribbons, and - well, you get the picture.

We want the early 19th century equivalent of the stiletto, sister.

I see it all now. Pride and Prejudice was originally titled Pumps and Prejudice, and was all about Darcy's horror of Lizzy's inferior ball slippers. He overcame his pride in his handmade Hessians for long enough to propose when she promised to give every pair of her crappy Chinese knock-offs to Lydia, and never write 'direct to the factory' again.

Compared to some of the other 'variations' on P & P I have read, this is actually quite believable.

I feel far more at ease thinking that JA loved shoes. Because let's face it; this is a woman sitting at home, writing furiously, giving her characters wonderfully satisfactory endings.

She damn well deserved really, really good...

Shoes.

One Hundred Tears Of Gratitude

Just because someone doesn't love you as you wish,it doesn't mean you're not loved with all his being. - Gabriel García Márquez

I woke up yesterday morning quite early, sadly (in terms of future earning potential as a police psychic) not due to any eerie premonition of doom or ominous foreboding, but simply because I have such incredibly bad hay fever that even breathing through my mouth was beginning to require an oxygen mask. STAT (always wanted to say that).

Then my breath really was taken away by the news that one of my favourite authors in the world, the galaxy, the universe - had died. Yes, he was 87, and had been suffering from cancer for a long time - but so what? I think that for many people, the expectation was that somehow, Gabriel García Márquez, or as he was known to his many, many friends, 'Gabo' - would simply always be there, arguing passionately, writing his stories of magical realism, infusing the world with passion, and love, and fire.

The first book of his I read was Love In The Time of Cholera, as a very precocious 11 year old. Of course it was far too old for me, but even then, although I didn't recognise much of what the book was about, I saw what Márquez wanted to say. I understood his language.  I loved the inner fire of Fermina Daza. I saw the dedication to true love - any true love - of Florentino Ariza. And strangely, I felt the most empathy for the third person in that strange little triangle - Dr Juvenal Urbino del Calle.

Maybe even then I saw that sometimes the desire of one's heart may not desire you in the same way - and also that you may not realise exactly what you yourself desire until it is too late.

One Hundred Years of Solitude.

The General In His Labyrinth.

No-one Writes To The Colonel.

Of Love And Other Demons.

All novels I devoured, and re-read and re-read again - because there was always something new.

Gabo was a friend to Castro. He was a Nobel Laureate. He was an outspoken critic of the corruption of the Colombian government - a dangerous thing to be, especially in one's own country. He was, in many ways, a modern day Simón Bolívar, with a pen instead of a sword. His books contained a source of magic and his language a lyricism which it is impossible to reproduce.

It is strange to love novels which have at their heart a profound sense of the loneliness of life - and in many ways, of disappointment. But this is the way of true life, and it was the way of Márquez's own life. He drew from what he knew.

But clearly, he also knew the human heart's best side. For who but Gabo could write a phrase like this:

It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.

And so it is. It is enough.

Always.

For which I am eternally grateful.

Is This The World That We Live In?

“What separates us from the animals, what separates us from the chaos, is our ability to mourn people we’ve never met.”

— David Levithan, Love Is The Higher Law

I have always loved the above quote for its optimism and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there is some hope for mankind. But unfortunately, on a day like today, when I woke in the early hours to hear the news of explosions, injuries and deaths at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, I feel as though it can be turned on its head.

What separates us from the animals - and brings us closer to the chaos - is our ability to injure, hurt, kill people we've never met; and not to do it with the purpose of survival - but to do it with the purpose of inflicting intentional pain.

Then I read on one of the live updates about a series of co-ordinated car bombs overnight in Iraq, which killed at least 55 people. Iraq is currently preparing for its first elections since coalition forces left the country.

On both sides of the world, people who were going about their daily lives were suddenly forced into fear and horror and blood and pain and death - because someone else decided to make a nightmare become reality.

What I would truly like to understand is this; what is the reasoning behind these people doing what they do? Because what scares me the most is that there may be no reason beyond a wish to make themselves heard - not out of a cry for their cause, or their suffering, but simply because they are hollow people.

What I want to say is not about apportioning blame to extremist groups, or pointing fingers at a particular religious persuasion, or anything along those lines. It is simply this.

The outpouring of love and support from around the world for the victims of the explosions in Boston is already incredible. It gladdens my heart to see it.

But I wonder; how many people are thinking of the dead in Iraq this morning. And I also wonder where and when this is going to end. After all, I sat in Jakarta as the Australian Embassy was bombed in 2004. I had been there for exactly two days. I watched again from the skies above the city in 2009 as a hotel with security to the eyeballs went up in smoke - and an Australian lost their life.

Because people are people are people. And some people have no moral compass.

Even if we call down the wrath of the angels on those who committed this act - there will be seven more to take their place. Unless there is a fundamental shift in the paradigm, nothing will change.

And all those who are willing to stand up and say 'this isn't the way it should be' - all of the people who do have the ability to mourn people they have never met - will continue beating their heads against a very solid brick wall of deliberate malice aforethought.

Thinking of you Boston, Massachusetts, USA. And Kamaliya, Iraq.

And mourning your losses.

Shakin' All Over

One's dignity may be assaulted, vandalised and cruelly mocked, but it can never be taken away unless it is surrendered. - Michael J Fox

Today is, of course, World Parkinson's Day. And yes, I may have my little joke with the title of my post, but that's OK, because I have Early or Young Onset Parkinson's, I have had it for a very long time, and if I'm not allowed to laugh at myself, I don't know who the hell is.

Last year I wrote a post called Stone Cold Fox which seemed to attract a fair bit of attention; sadly I think not because of my amazing prose or pertinent and poignant message, but because it featured a photie of me wearing - well, wearing my epidermis and not a hell of a lot else. Bad luck this year my friends, as I found this freaking FANTASTIC Cyanide & Happiness cartoon, and if there's anything that appeals to Parky people, it's black, black, black humour - because if we don't laugh at ourselves, there's definitely bound to be someone else who will get in pretty damn fast.

We have actually come a long way in just the last 12 months when it comes  to finding out not just more about why Parkinson's is, but how to actually beat the bugger off for good. For an easy to understand guide to what Parky is all about, rather than me trying to explain it (because let's face it, I am just a little bit biased), I suggest going to the Michael J Fox Foundation for Parkinson's Research's website and reading here. It's sensible language, it doesn't try to blind you with science or doctor garble, and it will help both the newly diagnosed AND their family and loved ones.

Myself and the marvellous Mr Jason Garner at a Shake It Up fundraiser in 2013 - drinking to raise money, of course!!

30 people a day are diagnosed with Parkinson's in Australia. Of those 30, 6 are of working age. I am 42. I have had Parkinson's since I was 29. I am incredibly, incredibly lucky in the level of Parkinson's that I cope with - but I admit that at times it is tough. I have what are called 'dystonic spasms' (and yes, Mike Fox gets them too) and at times they are so severe it makes it hard for me to talk. They hurt. A lot.

If I am on the phone, I sound slurry, as if I have had a stroke or have been drinking heavily (I wish, jellyfish). I recently had a health professional who should have known better insult me terribly by insinuating that yes, I was indeed bombed out of my skull and that I was making up these so-called spasms.

Suffice to say there were a few tears and then more than a small amount of Kate Stone style wrath (not pretty. Think Oscar the Grouch crossed with Darth Vader crossed with Miss Piggy).

People with Parkinson's, especially younger people, tend to try to hide their condition because there is still so much ignorance about it. Thankfully this is changing; but what would be even more amazing and wonderful is a cure. I have some super, super friends who are doing everything they can to make this happen, and there is one in particular whom I have to give a scream out to.

I am lucky enough to be a part of a wonderful women's netweaving group called LBDG, in itself a massive giver back to the community, and run by the most inspirational rockstar I know - Janine Garner. One of the gorgeous members, Tanya Grausam, runs a fabulous not for profit organisation 'Cocktails With A Conscience'. Not only is she allowing me the privilege of helping her get CWAC up and running in Perth, the first event of the year is benefiting - yes, you guessed it - Shake It Up, the Australian Parkinson's NFP associated with Team Fox, run by the dynamic Caz and Clyde Campbell - Clyde having Early Onset Parky like myself. Tan is also running the Great Ocean Road Marathon in honour of her gorgeous Grandfather who has Parky and is kind enough to include me in the mix. So sponsor her or I will come and sit in your garden and shake at you! And come and drink yummy drinks and give us lotsa cash at our CWAC event in your city!

A lot of people think having Parkinson's is about despair. As someone who has it, I beg to differ. I don't deny there are some very long, dark, deep, teary moments. I also don't deny there are some 'why me?' thoughts. But you know what? Ultimately the answer to the why me question is this...

'Why not?'

Am I so bloody special or holy or blessed or without stain that I deserve to be without a little pain?

No.

And for every shake, every frustration with trying to write neatly, every spasm, every trouble swallowing, every bit of fatigue...

There is a bit of understanding. That one day - I will feel better. And so will everyone else who feels a hell of a lot worse than me. And I have to say a thousand thank yous to Shake It Up for making me one of their heroes in 2013. Not deserved, but wow - tears of gratitude and absolute joy.

So shake, rattle and roll this April 11. Straight to a Parkinson's donation box.

And help us find a cure.

Or I'll accidentally whack you during a spasm.

Seriously... it'll totally be an accident.

Heh.

If you, or anyone you know is concerned about symptoms they think may be associated with Parkinson's, or if you or a loved one is newly diagnosed - or if you want to donate money, time or resources  - please go to Shake It Up or Parkinson's Australia. Thank you; and if you are affected, you WILL find a helping hand. That I can promise you. Feel free to message me privately through my blog at any time as well. K x

Hallelujah, C'mon Get Happy

They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for. - Tom Bodett

Yesterday (March 20 for those in slightly different time zones) was the United Nations International Day of Happiness. Now, much as I don't like being told what to do, or how to feel, on any given day, I actually quite like the whole concept of a day celebrating being happy.

Why? Because human beings are, on the whole, so very, very good at being unhappy. 

We excel at it. If there were a Nobel Price for Unhappiness, you would bet your boots that it would have to be shared out across the planet - although there are some individuals who spring to mind as front-runners for the win, including most prominent politicians, who generally look as if a genuine smile (and I emphasise genuine) is a form of strange disease.

The 2013 Gallup Poll of the world's 'Happiest and Unhappiest Countries' revealed that Scandinavia was where it's at for the joy with Norway, Denmark and Sweden taking out gold, silver and bronze - and Australia managing a creditable fourth place. Ireland was tenth, although it was prior to their Six Nations crown this year so I take that with a grain of salt for current standings (so long, Brian O'Driscoll - what a way to go out!).

Unsurprisingly, the Sadness Factor was highest in countries such as the Congo, Chad, and yes, Afghanistan, although I daresay Syria would be pretty near the top of the Tree of Tears now.

I do feel though that the way Gallup measured happiness was fairly subjective. Of course you're going to be less likely to be feeling grumpy living in Australia than in the Yemen, or Burundi; or if you have any concept of how bloody lucky you are then you will be. But asking questions like “Did you feel well-rested yesterday? Were you treated with respect all day yesterday? Did you smile or laugh a lot yesterday? Did you learn or do something interesting yesterday?” doesn't necessarily give you a true picture of what truly makes people happy as opposed to content.

Being treated with respect, and feeling well-rested, or learning something interesting - these are all fabulous things, and shouldn't be taken for granted. A fair whack of the planet doesn't get to enjoy these fairly basic privileges on a daily basis. But they don't in themselves add up to happiness. The essence of happiness is far harder and less tangible to define, and maybe that's why as thickheaded homo sapiens we are so bad at finding it, and instead spend a fair percentage of our lives in perceived blergh, or outright misery.

To me, happiness is intensely personal. It's not just about smiling or laughing. It's about being able to see the potential for laughter on a day, or during a week, or a month, when all that first comes to mind is tears or anger. It's about breaking through the perverse desire we have to say 'things are crap' and saying 'no they aren't... and if they are right now, then they won't always be'.

It's about hope.

Happiness is stupid jokes with those who share your sense of humour. Happiness is that sudden breakthrough in a tricky biscuit situation. Happiness is watching your incredibly grumpy cat stop sulking because you've been away for a week and throw himself on you purring like a maniac. Happiness is quite often chocolate, preferably Lindt Bunnies prior to Easter when strictly speaking they are ILLEGAL.

Happiness is telling someone you love them, and hearing them say it in return.

The world is a deeply scary place. There is so much terror and heartache that sometimes happiness seems like an impossibility. I am not so naive as to think downtown Kiev is a rainbow factory for example. But even in the middle of fear, and loathing, and hatred, it is possible to find that elusive fairy dusted feeling.

'Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy'. Not my words, but those of someone in the most bewildering and terrifying of worlds.

Anne Frank.

Come on. Get happy.

And Sweden... happy nation that you are... look out. I may consider a move to downtown Stockholm. Because I'm certain that being neighbours with a certain Alexander SkarsGod wouldn't impede my happiness factor.

Happy thoughts indeed.