I imagine jealousy to be a rather trying emotion. Luckily I am not the jealous type. By which I don’t mean sexual fidelity, just generally. For which I am grateful because, from what I have observed in others, it is a truly ugly self and others destroying emotion. However, and as an aside: If you are jealous don’t beat yourself up over it. It happens. Cry on my shoulder. Won’t make it go away. Yet sometimes a pain shared magnifies it. Making it combust.
What I don’t like is the big R. REGRET. Whenever I regret something I don’t know what to do with myself. First of all I feel bashful. A bit like Bambi when he meets Feline. Blushing. It’s what I call my Basil Fawlty moment. The one where he bashes his Mini with some twigs. I’d rather be Manuel: “Que?”. He is from Barcelona.
The thing about regret is that you can’t turn the clock back. I’d love to be a screen play writer. You write and rewrite till the plot fits the initial idea.
Yes, regret. You can recycle it. But you can’t make it go away. Sometimes from the recesses of my vastly overworked little grey cells I retrieve a memory. To make me shrink. I can’t believe I said that.
And I can’t. One of the worst was when my dear sweet English mother-in-law died. I sat with her for an hour. On my own. A dead body, changing pallour. Such tricks does the mind play I was convinced she was still alive. Flicker of an eyelid. As much as I am able to delude myself she was definitely dead. Yes, so one of the worst things I ever said was on the eve of her funeral. I am not English so wasn’t aware of need of hat to wear at someone’s funeral. Last minute foray into center of town, York/Yorkshire, to find me a hat. Her bereaved son and husband of mine rather impatient at the mission. I hissed at him, and this many years ago and still makes me want the earth to swallow me up: “Just because your mother has died doesn’t mean I need to look hideous.” You can’t beat it, can you? Just because your mother has died doesn’t mean I need to look hideous. Savour that for value.
Anyway, one minute before closing time (six in the afternoon) I found a truly snazzy number. That night my sister-in-law and I did the flowers for her mother in a little country church – and, yes, a vampire bat flew along the ceiling just to complete the picture and its atmosphere. And the next morning that little veil attached to my hat hid my grief stricken eyes at the dying of a wonderful woman. Whilst not looking hideous.