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Regrets

 

Regrets, I’ve had a few. And probably the greatest is that, through my life, I took almost no photographs. Really! The backpacking years of bus journeys across Europe, sleeping on beaches, being young and stupid. No photos! The archaeological dig at Hebron in Israel, no photos! Living in the African bush, a few photos, but they were all taken by other people and sent to me later.

Why did I think it was okay to go through life and record nothing? Looking back, I simply didn’t think about it. I was living and it didn’t occur to me that one day I might want to muse with a smile over my 21st birthday on Santorini where we slept on the beach and the girls gave me a tomato with a candle on it as we couldn’t afford a cake. That crocheted dress I bought in rural Zimbabwe that needed an underskirt – did I wear one? Did I hell! And then there was that party we had that led to a large fight and guests ‘dreeping’ out of the first-floor window which ultimately led to us being evicted from our student flat.

When my husband and kids came along, there are photos, lots of evidence of good times. But even then, there are gaps. Hauling my oldest child in a backpack on an anti-nuclear war march through the streets of Indianapolis – this is the child who later imported a Russian tank into the UK – no evidence, only my memory. Why didn’t I think to take photos?

Again, it was just life, living it and not thinking that anything might be noteworthy. But it was all noteworthy, increasingly so as I get older.

However, maybe I should be relieved that there is no photographic evidence of that crocheted dress to embarrass myself with. Memory tells me I should have worn an underskirt.

No photo will accompany this blog.

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