'Cheer up mate, might never happen!' said the cheerful tramp walking alongside me.
'It just did' I replied (being told 'it might never happen' has long been a dreadful phobia, surpassed only by all too regular post-sneeze benedictions).
Before he could cover me with another ale and pastie flavoured aphorism, I escaped into the relative safety of oncoming traffic. I'd rather risk my life, and definitely the lives of others, than endure another maxim from my new found adversary.
If we had stayed together any longer though, I'd have told him I was smiling because I have standards, standards regarding when I smile but also concerning the company I keep, which (ironically) also meant I wasn't able to stay longer enough to explain this.
Part of the problem is that grumpiness, or at the very least seriousness, is my default face. This is just what I look like. When I'm concentrating or day-dreaming or just walking briskly to avoid buying another copy of Big Issue, I usually look a tad dejected, like my face is made out of lemon and has just taken a bite out of itself.
Though I wouldn't claim to have a sunny disposition, I'm not quite as sour as my citrus-based features would have some believe, even if I don't dispense guffaws at the speed of Santa.
At the risk of being contradicted by everyone who has ever met me, I'm not curmudgeonly for the sake of it. I enjoy practising the dying art of grumping if the occasion calls for it, but this isn't always the case, and it certainly wasn't when this latter-day Fagan began chatting me up.
Before he had made this comment I was actually in a fine mood. I was heading home, the weather was reasonable (for London) and I'd just watched a banker in a three piece suit run flat out for a minute, only to miss his bus by half a second. Life was good, but I wasn't smiling: I have standards.
I have standards regarding what will make me really properly happy or properly miserable...properly happy enough to break into a smile for example, or properly miserable enough to warrant being told 'it might never happen'. Neither of these was the case, so then I was grumpy.
Having a decent sense of humour means you will find fewer things genuinely funny, not more. Part of having a sense of both fun and funny is being sparing about where you find that enjoyment. If I shed too many tears of mirth at the work of every toilet cubicle artist I come across I'll have none left for appreciating genuine moments of satirical brilliance.
If by 'sense' we mean an understanding, then I think those who dissolve at the mere idea of comedy have failed the test. 'I love a good laugh me' they exclaim meaninglessly. Don't we all? But for some of us being picky makes it all the more fun. When the funny guy in the office emails a picture of a baby giving the finger I've seen fifteen times already that week and I don't crack a rib laughing, apparently I'm the one without a sense of humour.
In actual fact he's the one in need of remedial lessons. Failed attempts at humour should be no more rewarded than other unsuccessful endeavours. It gives these people nothing further to strive for.
Another reason I don't smile for no reason (a statement which in an ideal world shouldn't need further elucidation) is I don't want to look simple. I once heard that Russian people look sombre as they don't want to be seen to look foolish by smiling unnecessarily. I think they're on to something there: when I think of people who smile at nothing I usually look for the electrode marks and residual wisps of smoke around the ears.
Russia and I like to save our smiles, and accompanying wrinkles, for things that are really wrinkle-worthy: that banker just missing his bus or a skateboarder taking a really nasty fall. A really good greeting card will get me creasing at the edges... but I don't put a smile on and leave it there just because I'm still breathing and conscious. Call me picky, but that's just too low a bar.
What would these people do if something properly good ever happened (heaven forbid)? I know exactly what they'd do: they'd sit there like a mullet caught in the headlights, barely reacting at all. They 'omg lol' at anything which even rhymes with 'Bum'...but keep Mum (eh? eh?) through the entire box set of Blackadder. These are the people who win the lottery then insist it won't change them...and for some reason we seem to think this is a good thing!
It's not just jocularity - I have a higher bar when it comes to other social norms too. I don't think that we need to exchange hugs and get misty-eyed at the end of every working day. Perhaps I'm a little more patrician than is seemly for someone of my humble lineage, but for me hugs are for special occasions and, for that matter, people. Weddings, funerals and significant birthdays (if you're celebrating your 34th, you can just put those arms straight back down).
It's me against the world on this though: people who are more generous with their personal space are considered warm and generous, rather than exposed as the social sluts they really are. On the other hand, if you are genuine, and thus more sparing, with your displays of affection you're seen as a prude. I think there must be a happy medium: a handshake every third meeting perhaps?
It's said that wrinkles are laughter lines and show personality and I agree. If you're 45 with a face like a walnut that fell asleep in the bath, I suspect you've spent a little too long giggling at trampolining accidents caught on tape, cats wearing hats or the mere wonder of being alive.
It's all opinion though I guess. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe that 'pull my finger' gag was brilliance and I'm just too stupid not to know a good joke when I smell it...