The ‘S’ Word

So I read this week that there is proof that young offenders are far less likely to re-offend after simply being made to say one word to their victims – sorry. A technique known as “restorative justice”. The psychological effect of actually making these scallywags admit they were wrong (and with any luck feel genuine remorse) is clearly deep enough to have a long-lasting and profound impact on their very being. Fascinating.

‘Sorry’ is an undeniably powerful word. One that the majority of humans just can’t find it in themselves to say. And yes, I am as guilty as the next man. Who, incidentally, sat to my right on this train has yet to apologise for breaking wind a moment ago. So, in an uncharacteristically self-indulgent fashion, I’d like to take this blog as the ideal opportunity to do just that. Not break wind, but apologise. Right some wrongs and all that.  Well, *clears throat*, here goes.

Sorry Jenny McGee for, 27 years ago, letting you take the blame for breaking your parents’ crystal decanter (and six matching glasses…and the toilet seat). It was me. I did it, during several silly fits of anger induced simply because you wouldn’t sleep with me that night.

Sorry to Constable Atkins of Greenhill police station for calling you a ‘Big Faggot’ some 17 years ago. It was only because I was jealous of your uniform. That and the copious amount of ethanol I had consumed that night.

Sorry to my lifelong friend Malvin Davis for not writing as much as I should and for pretending I’d broken both hands as a valid excuse. The only thing I had broken was my promise.

Sorry to my long suffering Mother for not arranging for Father to be sectioned earlier. And also for walking in on you both once during coitus. If it is any consolation, the event has permanently scarred me emotionally, mentally and occasionally physically. The deranged expression on Father’s face as he thrust himself into you will haunt me forever.

Sorry to my beagle Darwin for pretending to throw so many sticks for you to fetch, only to drop them behind me and cruelly laugh at your confusion, sometimes for days.

Sorry to Rosa my housekeeper for getting you to knowingly do menial tasks like only cleaning the black keys on my piano and the flaky bits between my toes. Also for incessantly mocking your absurd accent.

Sorry to Nelson my newsagent for not having the right change, and always having to break a fifty. And for calling you ‘blackie’.

There. That really does feel a lot better. Better late than never. And I really hope my victims are reading this, as I’m sure they’ll take comfort from my sincerity. Especially Darwin.

Oh and would you believe it, flatulent Floyd next to me has finally apologised for his earlier foul gaseous exchange. See, that wasn’t difficult was it? You odorous Geordie urchin. Ah. I think he may now be reading what I’m typing and didn’t care for that last comment. He is now rolling up his sleeves. Time to cut this blog short I’m afraid people, until next time. Sorry!

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