Why do we insist on overcomplicating everything?

It all started with the new coffee machine at work. “Why, oh please why?” wailed an experienced producer, perfectly capable of negotiating the perils of live television but unable to get even half an espresso in his mug.

“I just want a cup of coffee,” he wept and I could see his point. First it lets out some cleaning liquid, then you have to work out the number of beans you want, then you have to say how full you want your cup, all before you press go. And still his cup stayed empty. “What’s wrong with a jar of Nescafe?” he muttered as he skulked back to his desk with a cup of lemon and ginger tea instead.

Then came my phone, home as I am sure yours is too, to many a WhatsApp group. (Or, as I find myself often calling it- the ‘What’s Up?’ groups because normally something is.)

Back again in my day job as a TV journalist, working a weekend in the newsroom and my phone was alive. Honestly, it was jumping around the desk pinging non-stop.

“Oh my God Ellie, what’s going on, is there breaking news?” A younger member of the team asked, looking tense.  

“Don’t worry, it’s just the class WhatsApp group.”

“What’s wrong? Has something happened?” He enquired.  

“Somebody’s bought an actual tie instead of the one you clip on.” I replied and understandably he looked bemused. It was the thirty plus emojis which had followed, which had sent my phone off into said dance. I explained this was nothing, it’s worse when it’s at 10 o’clock at night, I told him, when if I’m honest, I’m not so ‘smiley face.’

And then it was my wedding anniversary lunch with my husband. We decided, while our sons were at school, to have lunch somewhere we wouldn’t normally go with the boys.

“St Nick’s Market?” My husband suggested. It’s a place in the old part of Bristol, where there’s a collection of food stalls adored by the lunchtime crowd.

“Excellent idea.” I replied.

But then, there we were. So much choice, so many decisions to be made. The last time I’d been (BC Before Child) there’d been much simpler options, but now I felt like I was in the midst of a round the world trip. Caldo verde, vegi gyoza, Kurdish naan, Kyochon chicken… the list went on. Delicious though I am sure they all were, in truth all I wanted was a salad, and maybe a cheese bap. And as it was peak-time for the lunchtime crowds there was nowhere to sit.

At last my husband and I found a seat outside a friendly Moroccan stall, and ordered.

“Why is everything so complicated?” I asked and then while we waited for our food, I told him about the conversation I’d had the day before.

It was for my Next Chapter podcast and I was interviewing a lovely lady called Gill who set up a company called with her husband called The Best of British Beer. They had been thinking about their Next Chapter for a while, knowing they needed one but not sure what when the idea came to them as they sat together at a beer festival.

“How do you buy a local beer you’ve liked on holiday in the UK when you go home?”

And from that simple idea their new life began. Ten years later they’ve built a family business, employ a dozen staff and Gill has the kind of happiness when she speaks about it, you can feel even through the Skype screen.

“You just need to find what makes you zing.” Gill agreed and that idea made her zing.

“Simple ideas, they’re the always the best.” My husband said, and sat back. It was quieter in the market now, and I sat back and breathed too.

“How’s the book going?” He asked. He knows I’ve been stuck for a while on part of the concept which I know does not work. I started to tell him the problem again, and then it happened. I don’t know if it was because we were sat together, I’d put away my phone or the lovely Moroccan people were making our lunch, but it happened. The zing. I knew what I had to do in my book, and the idea was so simple and obvious, it must have been there all along.

“Wow. Thank you. I’ve got it.” I told him as our lunch was served.

“Yes, you have,” he replied as he nodded at my plate.

Halloumi, pitta and a Moroccan salad. “Salad and a cheese bap, well sort of.” I said.

“You see,” he said, “it was here all along.”

It was true and so was the lesson learned.

Sometimes, everything we need is already right in front of us.

 (But perhaps we have to turn off all those pings to feel our zing.)