A few months ago, in a desperate and tragically Google-dependent attempt to claw my way out of a depressed, self-destructive mood that had been bogging me down for a long time, I actually visited the search engine in question and typed in the search field "how to be happy".

Trawling through the results, I eventually found a list full of pretty good suggestions. Things like making an effort to smile, and doing nice things for people, and taking care of yourself. Most of which I did....maybe except for the smiling. But I did give up my seat in a packed cinema so a woman could sit with her little girl, and I have to say, that felt quite good. But all in all, it didn't exactly transform me into the glowing, sunny person I'd hoped it would.

One thing I really can't stand about myself is the way I'm capable of getting myself into such dark moods, paticularly when there's nothing that major to freak out about. They pass soon enough and I'm left thinking "Huh. Well that was a lot of fuss over nothing, everything's perfectly fine now, and it wasn't even that bad in the first place. You stupid great diva". But I have to get there on my own - you can tell me and tell me until you're blue in the face, but if I'm in one of my moods, I'll still be shaking my fist at the sky and declaring myself to be cursed.

But yesterday, as I left work, plugged my iPod into my ears, blasted 80s songs into my head and made my way home, I realised that out of nowhere, I was happy. I was practically bouncing off the pavement as I headed towards London Bridge.

The stupid thing is that most of the reasons I'm suddenly feeling all lit up inside are things that I had before, and people kept reminding me of, but I couldn't see the wood for the sulking. But I can see them as clear as day now.

I love my job. I work on a magazine that's actually fun, and there's none of the condescending, bitchiness, or anorexia I always worried I'd come across, working for magazines. I work with a fantastic, normal, funny team of people, who have me laughing my head off at least twice a day. I work in an amazing part of London, in beautiful offices, and I even love my daily commute since I abandoned the tube for the bus.

I have a lovely house that's looking better and better every week, with all the stuff I've been doing to it. It's got its little quirks, but it's my home and I love it.

I have great parents, great friends and, as much as it's knackered me of late, my social life is through the roof.

I've found The One - in flatmate terms, mind you. She's called Lucy, she's 32, she's moving in at the start of November, and we've discovered our shared interests thus far are 80s music, talking, talking and more talking, and drinking enough gin to stun an elephant. We went out the other night, and ended up drinking 17.5 shots of gin EACH. I have no idea how I got home. I woke up still fully dressed. How I'm not dead is a mystery to me.

And tonight, possibly the best of all, I'm going on a date with my new boyfriend.

Boyfriend....