It might seem crazy what I'm 'bout to say, doo-doo doo-doo dooby-doo-doo……

Which probably qualifies as one of my longer blog titles. If I had the urge, I suppose I could draw up some kind of chart or spreadsheet entitled, “Ruth’s Blog Headings” but I don’t know that I can be bothered. It doesn’t sound that thrilling, does it? Although, while we’re on the subject, “I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like …… oh hang on” and “Hair toss, check my nails, baby how you feelin’?” are also fairly hefty. If you’re new here (welcome!) feel free to scroll back and see what you think.

I do love a bit of Pharrell and who can resist a quick burst of, “Happy?”

Anyway, on to the subject of the blog, which is why we’re all here. I do love a bit of Pharrell and who can resist a quick burst of, “Happy?” As I’ve shared elsewhere, finding all this extra time has meant that Mr Leigh and I have been lavishing a lot of love and care on the garden. Yesterday, we all enjoyed our very first home-grown sweetcorn, and it was the most delicious thing ever. Picture five people with butter running down their chins, chomping on corn cobs and smacking their lips and you have the scene at tea time last night. Courgettes are doubling in size almost as we look at them, the runner beans are rampant, the pumpkins are swelling, the fruit is fruiting and the poly tunnel is alive with yummy vegetables. Every spring, we start off well, weeding, planting, watering and hoping for a good crop, but by July, we’re in the midst of the catering season and feeling terribly guilty for not spending enough time nurturing plant life. Not any more!

On Monday, I realised something amazing. I’d go so far as to say it was an epiphany. It’s only in novels that people climb mountains, or stand at the top of waterfalls, or stride along a wide golden beach gazing out to sea and murmuring, “At last! Truly, I have found the meaning of life,” or similar. I was standing at the sink looking out at the herbs and thinking, “I really must get out there and pull those thistles up.” It wasn’t even a particularly sunny day, but the greengage trees were waving in the wind, loaded with fruit, the chickens were pecking and clucking contentedly and all was right with my world. Scrubbing industriously at a tea-stained mug, I suddenly realised I was happy.

Now when I say happy, I don’t mean that fleeting feeling we all get, directly related to good things happening. I’m referring to an emotion I have never felt in nearly fifty-four years of life, that whatever happens, whatever annoyances, gripes or grievances I may have, I am content. This is new. However happy I was before (and I was. Who wouldn’t be with my lovely husband and children?) something was always there, eating away at my joy as a wasp nibbles at a perfectly ripe Victoria plum. I used to berate myself. Why couldn’t I find that elusive feeling of contentment? My deeply-loved husband and children, my wonderful friends, my faith, my life experience, where I found myself in beautiful rural Suffolk was surely enough. Something was always missing. And that made me feel sad. But now I’ve arrived at the destination, finally mooring my skiff to the jetty.

It hasn’t been easy to get here. Two and a half years of counselling, painful life lessons learned, realising that if people and situations won’t change, I must change and all that jazz. Heck, it’s hard being an adult but it does have its compensations.

On Monday, I ticked lots of things off my huge to do list, which is always good. I baked bread. I picked vegetables. I acquired a second-hand mower for my parents for the knockdown price of £10 and a lovely second-hand wooden bench for the garden. Maybe all of those things contributed to my arrival at Happy Town. A routine phone call to Utility Warehouse doesn't sound like much fun, but the lady I spoke to, Latara, made it so. Who'd have thought that talking about broadband and electricity tariffs could be so much fun? But it was. Life is, and I think should be, often, a joyous disorder.

I’m a writer, so I like painting word pictures to illustrate my point. Let’s imagine that I’m a house. A nice, semi-detached Victorian house, for the sake of argument. A quick glance would show you curtains at the windows, flowers in the garden and veg in the veg patch. You might say to yourself, “Wow, look at that. I wish I could be like that house. My beans aren't doing too well and my flowers are choked with weeds.” If you came a bit closer, you might notice that the windows aren’t sparkling, there are nettles growing and the lawn could do with a mow. Still, that’s life, and the house looks pretty good, even close up. To extend the metaphor, while all this is going on, I’m round the back frantically underpinning, extending, re-pointing and shoring up because it doesn’t matter how many nice things people say about the house, I know it’s not right and it could be so much better.

I’ve stopped doing that now, after a lifetime of believing that I have to work harder than anyone else to be liked and valued. There are lots of things wrong with me. I’m a bit messy. I’m not very good at routine. I take on responsibilities I shouldn’t. I’m not great at character assessment. That said, I’m creative. I’m kind. I’m generous. I love helping people.

Which means that I can now give myself license to feel like a room without a roof, believe that happiness is the truth and that I finally know what happiness is to me. Here come bad news talking this and that? I think we all know what it can do with itself!

Because I’m happy.