Are you a cheerful soul or a miseryguts? Do you bear up to the challenges the world throws at you, or do you see the bad in everything? Is life a good place really, or is it a bit rubbish? Your emotional state can be defined by a number - a score between one and ten - with ten representing "damned satisfied with life" and one representing "utterly dissatisfied". This value is called the Happiness Index, and it's been the subject of much international research. I've had a think about what my HI is, and I've come to the unavoidable conclusion that I may be unusual. Because I'm permanently eight.
I chug through life at HI8. I'm a happy bloke, all told. I smile a lot, even when other people can't work out why. I look on the bright side, at least until events confirm otherwise. I don't wake up in the morning and sigh, and I don't go to bed at night depressed. I try to see the amusing side of everything, even when it's not supposed to be funny. I enjoy my job, and I don't give a damn that I might be earning twice as much somewhere else. When things don't quite go to plan, I don't wind myself up about it. Even though the world is full of moaning idiots, I try to ignore their bigoted wittering. I don't take offence, I don't do unnecessary guilt, and I try to make the most of what I have. All in all, I think life's pretty good really. I'm permanently eight.
OK then, I admit, I'm occasionally HI7. Not very often, but my eightness sometimes dips slightly. Will this pointless meeting never end? Why have the neighbours started smoking outside my window again? What do you mean, I need two fillings? Is all the food on this menu vegetarian? Why is that TV programme I missed not on iPlayer? When will this train start moving? What am I doing in the back of an ambulance? Just sometimes, just for a short time, my Happiness Index can drop to seven. But these comedowns are merely temporary blips, quickly past, because deep down life is still generally fine. Deep down I'm still permanently eight.
I very rarely do HI9. When I have a fortnight off work, I'm still eight. When I meet up with friends for a night out on the town, I'm still eight. When I'm about to take off for a fantastic holiday abroad, I'm still eight. When someone gives me an unexpected gift, or pays me an unsolicited compliment, or even hands me a Creme Egg, I'm still eight. It takes something rare and special, like a successful job application or an amazing out-of-the-blue email or a highly evocative dancefloor choon, to give me a brief burst of nine. And even then I only experience a temporary uplift of pleasure, and then I'm straight back down to normal again. I'm a natural eight.
I never do HI10. But I know that some of you do. Some of you leap off the sofa when Arsenal win. Some of you leap off the sofa when Arsenal lose. Some of you yelp with pleasure on securing an elusive eBay bid. Some of you bounce around on dancefloors with grinning teeth. Some of you are fired up by religious certainty. Some of you raise clenched fists at every PlayStation win or Wii victory. Some of you find cricket climactic, or rugby rapturous, or motor racing messianic. Sorry, but that's not behaviour that I understand. I'm not swung by sporting victories, nor moved by nationalistic passion, nor elated by political triumph. I don't do, can't do, won't do, ecstatic. I never experience higher than nine. I'm a solid and unyielding eight.
There was a time, about nine years ago, when I did HI2. Feelings of two-ness would creep up, for no obvious reason, and cast a shadow across my very existence. I'd be listening to the radio, or mulling over recent experiences, or even just sitting around doing nothing much, and suddenly my situation would seem very two indeed. I knew my two-ey thoughts were wholly irrational, but that didn't make them any easier to ignore, or to control. At least these two-ish troughs were only temporary, in a generally four-or-five-ish existence, although it took a few months of water under the bridge to claw my way back as far as six. And thankfully I soon found myself back where I've been for most of my life, restored to my happy plateau, at my consistent eight.
I'm very happy to be HI8, no more, no less. I don't care that I never experience the excitement and euphoria of HI10, not if that's balanced out by never again feeling the misery of HI2. I value stability, and optimism, and knowing precisely where I stand. Because life may not be perfect, but at least it's damned good.
I chug through life at HI8. I'm a happy bloke, all told. I smile a lot, even when other people can't work out why. I look on the bright side, at least until events confirm otherwise. I don't wake up in the morning and sigh, and I don't go to bed at night depressed. I try to see the amusing side of everything, even when it's not supposed to be funny. I enjoy my job, and I don't give a damn that I might be earning twice as much somewhere else. When things don't quite go to plan, I don't wind myself up about it. Even though the world is full of moaning idiots, I try to ignore their bigoted wittering. I don't take offence, I don't do unnecessary guilt, and I try to make the most of what I have. All in all, I think life's pretty good really. I'm permanently eight.
