Free Reading the Ceiling by Dayo Forster

green that frills around her face, accompanied by stockings of an indeterminate shade of brown. She looks decidedly un-Parisian, a démodée elf. Today’s elvishly chosen topic is the nature of la joie . 
    â€˜Let’s start by trying to define what joy is,’ she says.
    â€˜A tingle in your toes,’ starts Sarah.
    Other definitions pop out around the room: A sense of wellbeing. Contentment in the world and the things around you. Inner equilibrium.
    Â â€˜Is joy, ecstasy in living, a basic ambition for every human being?’ Madame LeBlanc asks.
    Yasmin stretches her manicured fingers under her chin, ‘Yes, obviously, if we’re not happy we end up killing each other.’
    â€˜Happiness is not necessarily joy, or ecstasy,’ protests Carlos.
    â€˜We can play around with the definitions, being joyful always means being happy as well,’ counters Sarah.
    â€˜Why do we pursue joy?’ At this point, Madame LeBlanc is leaning forward, jutting at the air with her sleek Parisian pen, enjoying the role of showing us what being a Left Bank intellectual is all about.
    Me: ‘Scientists show that joyful people live longer, healthier lives.’
    Yasmin: ‘But joy isn’t something that is always reflected on the surface. You cannot always see it. The Indian ascetics find their joy comes from within, and brings serenity.’
    Carlos: ‘I disagree. Some people in the world don’t have the choice to find joy, they find it hard enough to get enough food to eat on a day-to-day basis.’
    Back to Madame LeBlanc: ‘Are you saying you can only look for joy if you are rich?’
    â€˜Not quite, but it’s very hard to sit around debating the concept of joy if you are racked with worms,’ says Carlos.
    French philosophers. Colonialism. Nationalism. Freedom. They all contribute to our discussion of how to perceive happiness, joy, serenity.
    The class over, I let everyone shuffle out. I stand at the window for a moment, next to a boiling radiator, and look down on the row of cars parked in their rectangles of white paint, being drizzled on by an indifferent rain. How should I decide whether I am happy or not? It’s easier to determine when I’m not un happy, but harder to prove any depth or texture to a happiness.
    Would I have been just as happy staying home, not going to university, like my school friend Moira?
    She seemed content enough when I last saw her while on holiday. She works as a secretary in the Ministry for Lands and is married to someone who trades in building materials. With a second child on the way, who’s to say she’s not happier than I am. Here I am, with wider, broader horizons, yet not knowing how to guarantee myself joy.
    Kamal and I ate in the oak-panelled Senior Common Room sometimes, ostensibly to discuss the economics of trade. Once, we ended up playing footsie under the generous tablecloth, trying to smother snorts of mirth in the company of Engelbert Duthers, dandruffed member of the Economics Department. Memory stabs again, and I try to set it at a distance – me and this emotion . I walk around it in my mind, try to see the shape of it. Crumbly or smooth? Quiet ochre or intense ebony? I once wanted to claim love for myself, be intimate with it, aware of it in my eating and in my sleeping. Now, it’s a stranger. I want no part of this kind of wanting that gets you dumped. I don’t ever want to find myself beating a hasty retreat to the loo, to find a cubicle where I can hunch up on the seat, draw my knees up, fold them tight within my arms so I can rest my head and find some conduit for tears.
    Today, although there isn’t much pomp and ceremony, the caterers have added decorative touches to the room. Poinsettia is much in evidence, to match seasonal festivities. By the time the Prof bustles across to our table, I’ve ironed my emotions flat and tidily folded them away.
    We discuss my