‘Regrets I’ve had a few / But then again too few to mention’, the famous song declares. It is enduringly popular: the singer did it his way. This hymn to individualism I heard broadcast the other day to us shoppers, one familiar song following another, in a place of conformity and predictability, a large supermarket, where occasionally a distracted customer, oblivious to others, will sing along or hum. I didn’t—I’m reasonably sure—in that somnambulistic state generated by supermarkets, as shoppers drift down one aisle after another, sing snatches of ‘My Way’ but I did, masked no doubt by an expressionless face, wonder about regret.

There must be categories of regret, ranging from the severe to the trivial, just a few severe ones, too few to mention, perhaps easily dismissed along the highway of going my way. Next song, please. It was raining when I left the supermarket and I regretted not bringing my fold-up umbrella. Trivial, too, a thousand other regrets, though not immediately, say, amid a downpour, the heavens grumpy with thunder. The voice raised in anger, the uncharitable act, the parked car, one’s own, with the keys left in the ignition, stolen, then the consequence: regret. Murder might not easily qualify for the regrets too few to mention—for, that is, a repentant murderer. The other guy, the deceased, has run out of manifold opportunities for regret most of which, thankfully, and in the interests of waking up in the morning with the prospect of a fair day ahead, flicker a bit then fade. Making room, I suppose, for the next bunch of regrets, a common feature, from the severe to the trivial, surely being that someone who regrets something must be the agent of that regret. It can’t be inflicted upon him: the world may seem a terrible place but that’s not a cause for regret; the fact that he personally contributed to this situation might well be should he happen to pass judgement on the matter.