Mere Christianity – C. S. Lewis (1952)
I have thought about writing my memoirs but there are two things that stop me. The first is the age-old problem of not knowing where to start and the second is that, when looking back on my life, so much has happened that I think it would be better suited to a work of fiction, as no one would believe me.
Looking back, I think everyone has regrets about the way their life has panned out, but to be honest I have very few. Most of the ones I do have are things I could not have had an influence over …
- My husband’s grandmother was a seamstress but I met her too late in her life for us to ever have the opportunity, or her the energy to discuss things very much, so I regret not having the time to be able to learn from her.
- I regret that when my youngest son was born, after spending so many months in hospital, following a spate of miscarriages that I was too ill to take a photo of him with my dad when he came to meet him. I never imagined there wouldn’t be loads of time to picture them together … my dad died unexpectedly a couple of days later.
Things I could have done something about if only I had realised how important they would become …
- I regret not taking more interest in my family tree, how all the relatives fitted into the wider picture. Years later when I am now trying to piece it all together I also regret not writing things down so I would remember.
- I regret the last words spoken to my partner before he was murdered.
- I regret not spending more time with my dad, I adored him and was a total daddy’s girl, like so many people before me, I never thought our time together would be so limited.
So, there you have it, not too bad a list on either scores to have tallied-up over the last fifty years, plus.