I’d like to be well, wouldn’t you? Well, well-er. I’m OK. Midlife dampens expectations, and I’m easy to please. But where could I be well-er?
Quality of life indices boomed in late-70s America, as a way of charting – and promoting – places after the urban crisis when New York nearly went bust. They arrived in the UK during David Cameron’s drive for More National Happiness, when everyone became briefly obsessed with Scandi noir and why the Danes are so bloody cheery when it never stops raining. Each year the Office for National Statistics asks questions such as, “Overall, how satisfied are you with your life?” Now every district’s mood is mapped, we know precisely where to move to feel more Danish (or Norwegian, as last year Norway snatched Denmark’s happiest nation crown).
And it’s not where I live. Most cities tend towards the un-well. Recent research found Northern Ireland the well-est region of the UK, Craven in Yorkshire the well-est district, and North Warwickshire and Orkney in third place, confirming the suspicion that all the UK needs for cheer is green hills, decent house prices, few people and lots of sheep.
Me? I’m generally well-est where I can smell ozone and freshly fried doughnuts: the seaside. Throw in a smart telly and a masochistic north-easterly and I’m in heaven. Whitby, you’re mine.
