Regret

Regret

For the times I regretted, and the times I didn't?

There are many things in life we later regret doing or not doing,
saying or not saying.
When I was younger, I was sent outside to the Mr Whippy van to get
swirly-whirly ice creams for myself and my three cousins. I regret
licking the ridges and the grooves out of each and every one of those
cones before proudly presenting the small, smoothly rounded mounds to
three expectant faces. The shame haunts me to this day.

I also regret re-labelling an old jam jar with a 'help the animals'
sticker. At the time I felt no remorse when my friends and I were
gorging ourselves silly on black jacks and green snakes, sherbet dips
and pear drops. I didn't think of tartan rugs over knocking kness, one
bar not two, nor the pride they must have felt on helping the
zebras.

Nor did I care when I filled a rizla with talcum powder and pretended
to smoke, with grown-up panache, down on the beach with my friends and
my bucket and spade. I didn't care when I got told off by an old lady
for indulging in a 'disgusting' habit. I merely blew the powder
straight into her face and hoped it would fill in the cracks. I didn't
care then. I do now.

I cannot ever regret leaving the dishes in the sink, nor the nappies
blowing on the line day after day whilst I went in search of
Ferlinghetti and the 'Lost Generation'. I don't regret missing one
single episode of Charlie Dimmock's tits, nor Llewellyn-Bowen's
puffed-up shirt and manner while I sat in silent libraries for hours on
end, always the last to leave. I don't even regret that when my husband
shouted 'it's the course or me', I chose the course.

Of course with hindsight, I do have a few regrets. What if I had
watched Alan digging up worms, what if I had heeded Lawrence's advice
and had attempted a designer bedroom? Would I be feeling happier now,
more secure encased in my top of the range duvet cover with matching
curtains? Or is it better to struggle, alone, and not have the
entanglements expensive linen can bring?

But one of my main regrets in life is tearing up all the photographs of
the one man I loved the most; the one who touched me, teased me,
laughed with me and later at me. I will always wonder if he regrets
anything. Like the time I fell over in the street and he glanced back
but kept on walking. Does he ever regret the fact that it was a
complete stranger who offered his hand, who helped me to my feet,
whilst gazing with puzzled eyes at the back of the man striding away
from the scene? The one who had been at my side only moments
before.

Does he know that I dream of him night after night and long to feel the
warmth of his hand on my waist again, the way he used to when we lay,
spent, spooning, or 'spoonerisming' as we called it. We called it that
because words were always our thing- only he was far cleverer at them
than me. With eyes crinkling at the corners, we used to sing a silly
little ditty every night before moving in close. It was, and I regret
in advance the exposure and recriminations this may bring you: "Jisa
and Lasper titting in a sree, K I S S I N G." Then just a light, gentle
brush of lips on cheeks and sleep.

So, because of that, and many more like it, I really do regret tearing
up his photos. More, I regret the fact that I will never ever now be
able to draw that handlebar moustache above his lips. One thing I'd
always promised myself I would one day do.