My feet looked like little mummies the entire time. That’s the only bad thing I can say about my Saturday. Granted, people couldn’t actually see them; I’d covered them in pre-emptive plasters precisely because I knew I’d be wearing these beautiful brogues, and I knew that they are the most uncomfortable shoes I own. Still, if your wonderful friends are getting married in Lincoln’s Inn, as proud barristers are wont to do, then you really do have to look your best.
The couple had told us guests that there would be little guidance on what to wear, seeing as they mostly just wanted us to feel comfortable. In the end, though, everyone looked their best. It was joyous! We sat in the chapel and sniggered like teenagers when the word “sexual” was said out loud, then we ate and drank and listened to wonderful speeches (the groom still doesn’t know how to ride a bike?), and after that we spent the evening either on the dancefloor or singing showtunes around a piano. It was heavenly.
Well, it probably wasn’t for whoever was standing next to me after a bottle of wine, having forgotten that no, I really, really cannot sing, and definitely should never sing loudly, but everyone else had a great time. “Watching friends happily marry the person they love while surrounded by their dearest friends and relatives is just the best” may not be the most original of opinions to have, but sometimes even the obvious must be stated.
Similarly, I would now like to blow your mind by telling you that, the day after, I woke up surprisingly hangover-free and decided to make the most of my unexpectedly free Sunday. Like the louche punk that I am, I propelled myself out of the house and managed to get to Strawberry Hill House, the little gothic castle built by Horace Walpole, minutes before it actually opened.
I loitered in the sunny gardens for a while, then eventually went in, and had a lovely time. After that, I walked down the Thames path and found a pub terrace on which to have lunch, by the side of the river. Granted, I was still wearing my coat, as it only was March 2, but I could actually feel the warmth of the sun on my face. It was delightful. Really, I had the perfect weekend.
For the avoidance of doubt, I’m not telling you all this to brag, or because I think of you as my penpals. Well, I sort of do actually, but that’s not the point. I’m bringing up my perfect weekend here because I think small, nice, personal things are worth cherishing at the moment. The world, as you may have noticed, is not in a good place. Donald Trump is being his worst possible self, which is an impressive bar to clear; Elon Musk has turned into a bona fide comic book villain, and Vladimir Putin is having an amazing year, which is bad news for everyone else.
The future of the west looks uncertain right now, and there are countless ways in which things could go horrifically wrong, today, tomorrow, or by this time next year. It’s not something we’re really used to; at least I’m not, as a 33-year-old. My formative years were spent being told that I could be optimistic about what was to come. I’m not too sure how to deal with this constant doom and gloom. I was never given a handbook on how to confront it.
There is, as a result, no way to know whether what I’m doing is the right thing, but I think it’s working pretty well. What I’ve decided to become better at is to focus on the things I can control, and the things that do bring me joy. Social media has long been tricking us into thinking that seeking happiness in a broken world is a selfish act, as instead we should spend our lives glued to our screens, swallowing up all the ways in which humanity is failing, but it’s time to put an end to that.
I can’t fix Russia, just like I can’t fix the United States. They will not break down any further if I happen not to look at my phone and witness their descent into madness for a few hours. It just isn’t my duty, and it isn’t yours either. Of course, I’m not arguing that we should all leave the news behind; that would be too drastic. What may be useful, however, is to try to keep things in proportion.
You don’t really matter to the world and neither do I, and that ought to feel freeing. You’re not helping anyone by spending your days scrolling and worrying. Go outside if it’s sunny; see your friends; spend time with your family; do things that will lift your mood. That’s the only way to keep going. There isn’t much either of us can do to fix the world, but we can certainly try to fix ourselves.
