In this week's newletter, Dolly talks about a book called Modern Delight, a response to J B Priestley's 1949 book Delight, in which writers and people of note reflect on the smaller things in life that delight them, be it a particular time of day or a well made cup of tea. I love this idea, because it really is important to find joy in the seemingly mundane. Simple pleasures fill the gaps between the grand gestures and I happen to think they're often better.
Dolly says that both books (which I'm eagerly trying to track down online):
"confirm what [she has] often suspected, that the people who are truly happy are the people who can find pleasure in the habitual."
She then goes on to write her own list of delights and it was a joy to read on my tea break at work. My mind has been buzzing with my own delights ever since so I've decided to write back to Dolly. See this as a reply to a letter that was inspired by a book that was a response to another (confusing? nah.) Books, letters and lists are three definite delights of mine so they're a great place to start. Here goes.
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Warm buttered toast, seeded, with marmite puddles. A perfectly ripe avocado. Big bowls of pasta that leave you comfortably full. The smell of ground coffee in the foil packet. The smell of coffee shops. Coffee.
Heinz tomato soup when you're wearing a jumper. My Granny's apple crumble, but only if she's stewed the apples really well. Restaurants that have good vegetarian options, not just the standard tomato pasta (although pasta is GOOD, see above). Cheesecake. A strip of Cadbury's Dairy Milk. Plates of mediterranean vegetables and olives and sun-dried tomatoes. Strong cheddar, grated. Strong cheddar, sliced. Strong cheddar in cubes on sticks. The satisfaction of a perfectly risen cake that doesn't need more oven time. I could go on but let's leave food for now.
Oh, and the scent of fresh basil.
The first autumn day that requires a coat. (Read also flat winter boots). The first spring day when you can confidently not wear a coat. The smell of cold air. Starbuck's gingerbread lattes, hot. Going shopping when it's dark and the high street's all lit up. Fairy lights, at Christmas or any time of year. The Salvation Army band in December.
The excitement of waking up to snow. Waking up to an unexpected sunny day. Rain, particularly the sound of it when in bed and the window is slightly open. Morning air.
Seeing an impressive moon and gasping to someone the next day, "did you see that moon?!" Clear night skies when you can see all the stars. Trying to identify constellations.
When an outfit looks as good on as it did in your head. When your online order arrives and you don't have to send anything back. Post. Postcards. Handwritten letters. A good biro. Thick paper that feels expensive. Filling a whole notebook and storing it away for future reference.
Having a successful day at the sales.
Wearing my university hoodie, the one I know I will never ever throw out because I'm far too sentimental.
Fresh air, fresh sheets, fresh fruit.
The opening "oooooohs" in Helpless from the Hamilton soundtrack. Successfully rapping any verse from the Hamilton soundtrack. Being part of a standing ovation. Imagining what it would be like if we all burst into song, a la musical theatre.
Gospel choirs and people singing a cappella. Charlie Fink's voice. The strings on any Noah and the Whale track. Remembering that I got to see Noah and the Whale and how wonderful it was. Alex Turner's Submarine EP. Abbey Road. Joni Mitchell's Blue album. Carole King's Tapestry album. Young Laura Marling. Got My Mind Set on You, on repeat. Dancing to old Taylor Swift songs with my sister. The Notting Hill soundtrack. The Bridget Jones soundtrack.
Richard Curtis films, with and without a young, floppy Hugh Grant (but preferably with). Wrapping up Christmas presents on the floor while watching Love, Actually. Harry and Sally pulling a Christmas tree through the snow. Choosing a Christmas tree with my mother and pretending, every year, that I am Sally. My mother never getting tired of that.
New books, old books, charity shop books, charity shops in general. Books with dogeared pages and spines that have been loved. Jane Austen's wit. Virginia Woolf's prose. Anything by David Nicholls. Being able to wander through Waterstones with no time limit.
Walking in welly boots. Running in a breeze. Finishing a run and not feeling like I'm going to collapse. Collapsing into child's pose after a challenging yoga flow. Waking up in the morning and realising I have yoga class to look forward to at the end of the day. The few brief seconds after waking from a blissful dream and not yet realising that it was in fact imaginary. A child's imagination.
Wearing a pair of tights with no holes or ladders in them. Wearing tiny hoop earrings. The smugness of wearing matching underwear that no one else knows about. Matching winged eyeliner and strong eyebrows.
Discovering a new writer/musician/artist and having an entire back catalogue to bask in. Sunflowers. Bumblebees. Predicting, and subsequently finding, a rainbow. Being able to walk through a door that says "Staff Only". Having an idea late at night and being so excited to start working on it the next day that you can hardly sleep. Buying new craft materials.
Remembering who that-person-on-the-telly-in-a-minor-role is and where you've seen them previously BEFORE your friend can Google their IMDB page. Getting lost in a spiral of IMDB pages and Wikipedia entries, then later impressing friends with your new-found knowledge. Friends (the people). Friends (the TV show). Clapping along to the theme tune of Friends (the TV show). Getting a pointless answer and being congratulated by Richard Osman.
Oliver Postgate's voice in the opening sequence of Bagpuss. Following The Clangers on Twitter. Talking to my parents about children's television of their generation. Leafing through my Granny's immense collection of old photographs and hearing the same stories about distant aunts and cousins over again. The feeling of holding a photograph between your thumb and forefinger. Finding a favourite photograph from the box which you thought you'd forgotten about (perhaps of my Grandad in his National Service uniform). Having Facebook bring up six year old photos and the warm nostalgia or forgotten memories, which I suppose is our equivalent to the photograph box.
Meeting a friendly cat in the street. The weight of a cat sleeping on or near your lap. Cats' paws, cats' whiskers, the softness of the fur at the base of a cat's ear. Cats in cardboard boxes, cats at the end of your bed, cats following you around the house. Being and feeling wanted by a cat. Cats, and everything about them. Cats the Musical.
The crunch of autumn leaves underfoot, the noise a well made clock makes, the sound of the sea. Pebbles. The plop of a pebble landing in water.
Taking off your shoes after a long day. Pulling up on your driveway after a long day and sighing, "ah, home again". Being at home, and feeling at home somewhere that isn't.
Writing long lists of all the things that are delightful.
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That. Felt. So. Nice. Seriously. I'm sure there are hundreds of other things I could include in this list - maybe I'll add to it one day. I urge you to write your own and to take delight in life's simple pleasures.
And thanks of course to Dolly for sparking these ideas. I eagerly await my next Dollymail xxxx
