In which I long to feel joy again

I’ve been reading a book called Feeling ‘Blah’? Why Anhedonia Has Left You Joyless and How to Recapture Life’s Highs by Tanith Carey (Welbeck, €21.99). Anhedonia is Greek for an inability to feel happy. One sentence really resonated: ‘I almost fall off my chair with shock when I hear myself laughing.’

You don’t have to be depressed to experience anhedonia, but it can be a symptom. Another is: you can’t easily recall a time when you really enjoyed yourself. (Me? Hmm. I honestly can’t remember being happy. Even my last date with the Rock Star was littered with the ignominy of multiple beds in our hotel room; the sort of earth-shattering disappointment that only I, with my mania for perfection and dislike of anything ‘family size’, can experience.)

You no longer enjoy things that used to give you pleasure – dog walks, sex, dinner somewhere posh. Lockdown exacerbated this feeling for many of us: there was nothing to plan or dress up for. We need goals, treats to look forward to rather than yet another Groundhog Day.

That’s what I’d always do, in my old life: a date with David at the Royal Albert Hall, say, before which I would have had my hair done, nails polished. Dear God, for a newspaper’s 40th birthday party last summer I rented a Bottega dress and matching clutch, and hired a stylist. When I hosted a readers’ evening earlier this year, one woman’s comment stuck: ‘Liz, you need to stop having all these expensive treatments. You need to look after yourself, not care what other people think of how you look.’

She’s missing a fundamental law I’ve always lived by: I dress up, look after myself, out of respect for others. I wouldn’t turn up, as an in-law did, in jeans and nose rings at my mother’s funeral. I wouldn’t, as one famous columnist did, turn up for a debate at the Oxford Union in a tracksuit, heaving an old rucksack. I’m writing a musical at the moment*, set mostly in the 60s. I’ve been watching footage of the time and everyone is so smart, and slim, wearing proper shoes that have been polished. Their hair is set, they wear false eyelashes, lipstick. They carry handbags, wear stockings. My feeling is that the external directly affects our mood and self-esteem.

It’s why I’ve loved fashion since I was five years old. It’s a way of making myself more confident.

And so, my biggest worry about my first date with White Ferrari Guy** later this week is what on earth should I wear?

I’m hopelessly out of practice. I’m thinking my 20-year-old lace Prada skirt that I’ve cut the lining out of, so that it’s sheer (I’m so easily swayed by photos of Florence Pugh out and about in just her pants), with an oversize cashmere V-neck I’ve borrowed from Marks & Spencer. I’m out of practice applying make-up, too: I’ve decided to ditch the eyeliner, and order sparkly eyeshadow from Victoria Beckham. I’ll wear my new diamond stud earrings rather disloyally, given they are from David.

But rather than sparking joy, I feel a bit ‘blah’. I don’t want to sit across from a man while he judges me, as though I’m a spaniel at Crufts. The endless questions (just google me, numb nuts!). His inevitable boasting. Me wheeling out colourful, celebrity-strewn anecdotes to someone I have nothing in common with. Then I catastrophise. Will the Botox two days beforehand cause a bruise, meaning I’ll have to cancel? Will he follow my car to my house and murder me? Will he post something mean online? Will I? (Which, as we know, is far more likely.)

I am now dressed, as ready as I’ll ever be. I park my car behind a tree as I’m so ashamed – it’s like Kristen Wiig’s wreck in Bridesmaids: ‘Remember when you thought I’d hit bottom? That wasn’t bottom.’ I don’t spot a Ferrari of any description. I make my way to reception. And then… I’ve got an email. Oh. Dear. God. *Fear not, I expect it to be rejected, like my latest novel. Podcast fans will be glad to learn I won’t be doing the singing.

**I’ve upgraded from White Pepper Guy

We need treats to look forward to rather than another Groundhog Day