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The counsellor told me I needed to have more fun, but that takes talent, and I worry I’m a wet lettuce

Fun is described as being a confluence of playfulness, connection and flow. I don’t know how to engineer that

I’m more likely to be found under the flickering lights of the local community centre than the dancefloor. Photograph: iStock
Céire Sadlier
Wed Sept 18 2024 - 06:00

“You need to have more fun,” were the parting words of a counsellor I went to years ago who had given me a pie chart to fill in, each portion representing some area of life – career, finances, family, physical health, fun/recreation, etc. This was the second time I had to shade in each piece to determine how fulfilled I felt. The first time I filled it in, months before, when I was underwater, the idea of having fun was so out of reach that I had not gone near that blank little triangle. Even when I felt better, it had not been a priority because I had been focused on what I thought were the big guns. The counsellor did not entertain my whining about not having enough money, time, or energy to have fun.

I tried to blame Dublin city. There’s nowhere to go any more, I can’t face another WhatsApp availability poll and it’s €15 for a gin and tonic. Emmet Kirwan, who captured a snapshot of Ireland’s 1990s dance culture in his play and film, Dublin Oldschool, spoke recently in an inner-city room speckled with the pink and yellow light of stained-glass windows. He assured us that town’s not dead. Younger people have cunningly dodged the city’s suffocating regulations and costs, finding new ways and places to party. They’re raving in sheds. “I need me one of them sheds,” sighed a woman who had just read a poem about menopause and how the hair that once grew from her eyebrows now sprouts from her chin.

I’m more likely to be found under the flickering lights of the local community centre than the dance floor. Late on a Monday night, the pre-meeting murmuring among the volunteers led to talk of a new thing on in town, an over-30s dance event that starts at 5pm and ends at 9pm. We laughed that actually, it didn’t sound too bad, but my heart broke a little, the way it does when I catch myself talking about great drying weather.

There are plenty of things that I enjoy. But enjoyment sounds a bit utilitarian compared with fun

Some people don’t need an event to elevate a good time into a great time, pulling never-ending handkerchiefs out of their sleeves while I gawp at their imaginations from the sidelines. My friend Jan might call in for a cup of tea and before the kettle has boiled, she’s dragging one of my kids around the kitchen floor on a mat she spotted under a press or she has them painting rocks with nail varnish while I open the biscuits. Where I’d be doodling beside them on the pavement with chalk, she has them lying out like starfish. Their laughs explode as the chalk tickles their fingers and toes and their eyes widen with possibility as they consider what to do with the figure laid out in front of them.

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Other people can create entertainment with words. At the start of a match in Dalymount a few weeks ago, the crowd bristled at people blocking the view. A tall man with a sleeveless shirt and damp hair took his chances leaning on the barrier. Shouts to get out of the way were ignored until the woman behind me roared, “Sit down Danny Zuko!” That, along with a sniggering usher, moved the Grease wannabe along and laughter bubbled across the stand. It turned out to be the most entertaining part of the whole game.

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I marvel at skilful storytelling that quickly spins boredom into rapture. After midnight on a February ferry from Holyhead to Dublin Port, surrounded by dozens of dozing under-10s footballers, I asked my friend Brian if he had ever been fishing. “Have I never told you about me getting hooked?” Fifteen minutes later, a small crowd of coaches and parents had gathered, drawn in by the knee-slapping chuckles. It wasn’t too late for stragglers to get sucked in as he pulled layer after layer off the tale, the story spiralling upwards to a spectacular crescendo that had me gasping for breath, squeezing my legs together, and wiping sheets of tears from my cheeks. It still makes me giddy to think of it. It takes talent to make that kind of fun.

I worry that not being able to fill up that little fun triangle makes me the type of person my friend Anto would describe as a wet lettuce. There are plenty of things that I enjoy. But enjoyment sounds a bit utilitarian compared with fun. Fun is described as being a confluence of playfulness, connection and flow. I don’t know how to engineer that.

Tired of walking but not ready to let go of the sunny day, we ended up sitting in the grass, then lying in it, running our fingers through the blades, taking in the treetops and the blue sky

During the Covid lockdown, a nationwide craic vortex, we lived for walks as one of our only outlets. Another effing walk, we called them. We tried our best with our limited freedom to knock a bit of craic out of a dander. I go for a walk with my friend about once a week. We follow pretty much the same route, we talk about pretty much the same things week after week, month after month, year after year. “I really enjoyed that,” we say to each other when we hug goodbye, and we mean it. One warm May afternoon, near the end of the normal trail, we wandered on to an empty pitch. Tired of walking but not ready to let go of the sunny day, we ended up sitting in the grass, then lying in it, running our fingers through the blades, taking in the treetops and the blue sky. We asked questions we don’t normally ask. We laughed more than we normally laugh. We watched the clouds transform from one thing to another and felt warmth from the ground on our backs and the sun on our faces. That was great fun, we said to each other. A simple change turned a lazy Sunday stroll into the most unassuming thrill.

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