Long life
I am often asked what, in my long life, I most regret. Usually, I dismiss regret as a pointless emotion that I have no time for, but recently I was made resoundingly aware of how much pleasure I have been deprived of by a bad lifelong habit: judging people by appearances.
For many years, I lived on the same street as a woman who had a congenital condition physically affecting her whole body; it seemed a miracle she could still get about. She used to be accompanied by her dapper, unassuming husband. When he died, I expected her to go into care but, for years after, she seemed to struggle on alone. I would occasionally have a short, polite conversation with her about the weather or some acting work I had done, which she always appeared to know about. When she died a few months ago, I decided to go to the remembrance service held in her honour at the local church, as a mark of—I must admit—slightly condescending respect. It was a stunning revelation.
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