..where you might be going. A period, or even a singularity, when one realises that this is as good as it gets. When you have achieved the right balance between youthful folly and the wisdom of age - a brief moment in time – such as when Goldilocks found the best porridge, chair and bed and surmised that, just for a moment, all was well with the world. Not too hot or too cold, too big or too little, too hard or too soft. Just right.
Points in time when everything about oneself and the environment are in in perfect harmony; and you have the wit to realise that this is now that moment. A period of self-awareness, of human weightlessness before gravity takes over and you slide down life’s rainbow in folds of decrepitude and weariness, vaguely bemused as your mind and memories turn into motes of dust floating in the air containing never to be recaptured thoughts and memories.
Life can be a case of either not having arrived - or of being too late. Either discovering oneself still to be covered in a greasy layer of immaturity, pimples and unremitting anxiety, or standing alone on the empty platform with grey thinning hair, wine stains down the front of your shirt, wearing unfashionable trousers and seeing the train of life vanish in the distance, leaving only the sound of champagne flutes tinkling faintly in the distance and the fading susurration of other people having a good time.
So, as an alternative life grants you what might be called happy moments, a few minutes, perhaps even a few hours here and there when you can say to yourself that this is just right. We are definitely not talking about Technicolor, Cinemascope, fully multi-channel symphony orchestra moments scored and orchestrated by Erich Korngold, where the Red Sea parts before one and the Promised Land can now be seen clearly indicated by a giant pointing polystyrene hand in the full regalia of a leading supermarket chain. That can only be achieved under the influence of assorted chemicals, participation in an orgy of mass delusion and hysteria, or Hollywood.
In 2004, many years after my minor epiphany in New Zealand, I am with my dear friends Greg and Jill staying at a Château du Broustaret, which is actually closer to a large farmhouse, in the Bordeaux. Having slept late and demolished a magnificent breakfast we drove off, with myself as the uncertain and occasionally terrified navigator through the Sauterne district and around and into many a Chateaux and village. The roads were narrow and separated from the vines by a narrow strip of grass. We stopped, gawked, and were studiously ignored at Chateaux Suidurat, Giraud and Filhot makers of some of the greatest sauternes whose exclusivity was enhanced by not being offered to us. The first sign of Noble Rot could be seen on the vines. And in the car.
We lunched at a place called Cazeneuve under the trees with wine, cheeses, pâté, ham and all other manner of fine food. The weather was idyllic, the sky high and blue, the shade cool and the temperature could only be called as bamy as we were. The food was delightful, the wine excellent and I confessed that, after forty odd years, this is the only the second moment of happiness that I could recall - an occasion that resulted in my happiness being toasted at length. This made me even happier, though I may have been exaggerating just a little about the scarcity of happy moments. Incidentally, Cazeneuve has a large park with the castle that we ignored when we found that it required parting with money, for parting with money and happy moments are not necessarily to be countenanced at the same moment .
We returned to Broustaret armed with more food and wine and, miracle of miracles, I had another happy moment, which made me think that being in France with food, wine with good friends might be a good start to feeling good about the world. I am prepared to continue testing that hypothesis for as long as I can.
Anyway, you can’t plan for happy moments, you can’t buy them, win them or compete for them. When the rather gorgeous Cristina Campbell slid across the bench seat of my grandmother’s red and cream FB Holden with its three speed column shift and nestled against my side as we drove off for our first date, that qualified as a happy moment. Rather exciting too I recal,l as I thought she was rather out of my impecunious league.
So when these moments occur unbidden at the touch of a hand, a gentle shower of rain, or the weightless pressure of a snowflake, take the moment for what it is and walk on with a high heart. It probably is as good as it gets.