NON, je ne regrette rien. That’s the conclusion we’re all supposed to arrive at when we reflect on our lives, isn’t it? It’s most chic to meditate on our poorest decisions – the haircut that made us look like a wet spaniel; the one-night stand who smelled like one – and give a nonchalant shrug. After all, we are the sum total of our experiences. The good, the bad and the stinking.
Yet despite having spent much of the past year wearing a felted beret at a jaunty angle in the hope it would confer some sort of elegant composure amid the raging bin fire of 2020, I can’t profess to being an insouciant Edith Piaf type. Regrets? I’ve had a few.