Notes from an Apologist
Regrets, sang Frank Sinatra; he’d had a few, but not enough to mention. Edith Piaf had none whatsoever. Sorry seemed to be the hardest word for Elton John meanwhile, although I bet he’s never had a crack at pronouncing that really long Welsh village name. If he had, it would put things into perspective for him I’m sure. I know all of this because I grew up with these records, played frequently on the old Dansette my mum and dad had in the living room.
The word ‘apology’ hasn’t always meant the same as ‘sorry’. It could be argued that it often still doesn’t … The Old English word sarig included in its meanings expressions of grief, sadness or sorrow. ‘Regret’ meanwhile has its origins in Old French, with similar meanings. The word ‘apology’ has its roots in Greek, with a literal translation being along the lines of ‘away from speech’ and was more a defence of what others might believe to be wrong rather than an admission of fallibility from the perpetrator.
We all make mistakes. It is part of the human anatomy. That statement in itself might be a mistake. I am not a scientist, psychiatrist, psychologist or any other person with similar expertise. I’m just an administrator in the sort of office you walk past every day without even noticing. However, it is a statement made in good faith. Should I say ‘sorry’ if I am wrong? I don’t know. I’ll let you decide. I can however offer my apologies.
What you will find in these pages are the stories of an assembly of apologists. I have been unable to find a collective noun for people who want to say ‘sorry’. Perhaps a church of apologists might be better, given that the whole point of going to church is to catch up on the latest gossip and have a nice cup of coffee and moan about the vicar’s sermon. Sorry, I mean to repent one’s sins. I apologise. The tales beyond this introduction were sourced from responses to an advert I wrote on a postcard and popped in the window of the post office up the road. I paid £1.20 for the privilege of having it there for a month alongside adverts for a Man With A Van, a clarinet for sale, a cleaner available five mornings per week who could provide references and a clean bill of health, and a couple of other adverts which seemed to indicate less salubrious professions.
That is a lie. Actually, all of the above paragraph is a lie. A deliberate lie, at that. They are my tales, my stories; my apologies. I don’t claim to be perfect, far from it. Unlike Madame Piaf, I have regrets, and unlike Old Blue Eyes there are many more than I care to mention in these pages.
I hope you enjoy these stories. If not, then …
Alex x
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