Happiness is always at my fingertips.

There is a bicycle in a shed within a mile of you that hasn't moved in two years. Nothing is wrong with it. The tyres want air, that's all.

Most of what reliably lifts people is like that — close by, cheap, slightly out of use. The sea twenty minutes away. The friend who would answer on the second ring. The instrument in its case under the bed. Fingertips is a claim about distance, not about effort. The thing is genuinely near. Somebody still has to stand up and find the pump.