On sorries and apologies

I must’ve said sorry more times than I’ve eaten bananas, I decided. Just the other day I explained earnestly to a friend that I’d even apologise to somebody who’d just shot me for getting in the way of their bullets.

Recently I apologised in retrospect, via Facebook, for calling a boy a ‘panface’ at school – even though I got punched for the trouble back then anyway.I apologise when I’m ran over by rapid mothers and prams in town.

I apologise when I’ve only got a heap of twenty pences for my train fare; equally because I don’t want to weigh anybody’s pockets down nor embarrass anybody with how warm I’ve made coins.

I say sorry to snails if I catch them on my last cigarette outing of the night – when it’s too dark to notice much save the bench and how fucking weird bats are.

I’ve mouthed sorry to panicked drivers when my brother’s road-raged at them.

I’ve been told I put chewing gum in somebody’s hair once – fifteen years ago – and then spent twenty minutes fretting over how best to make amends.

I’ve apologised quietly in my book for even writing it.

Apologised to my (then) publisher for sending my final first draft because I know it’ll probably not be my final first draft at all. And isn’t.

I’m forever apologising to my mother for unmentionables; to exes for being unmentionable.

I’ve apologised to the goodly wing of my family for not believing; to the real men of my family for thinking feminism’s all right in principal.

For my dead hamster I only hold guilt and I can’t put Mum’s tortoise outside because of that time I found it being pecked to bits by magpies.

Probably it’s explainable; probably I could care less. Certainly I’m not keen to offend people close to me. But tell me honestly that it’s not my fault and I’ll send you an email explaining why it is anyway.

And the worst thing? The worst thing’s knowing – knowing absolutely that it needn’t be said – because the only times you really need to say sorry are when saying sorry isn’t nearly enough anyway.