Yesterday evening, I got laughed at by a man in the street because I was talking to a cat.
It made me sad.
Mostly because it reminded me of the time when I was little when two teenaged girls laughed at me for taking my telephone for a walk.
That may need some explanation.
When I was three or four, my Daddy bought some toys home from a stall at a school fete. Along with a blue elephant teddy bear, which I christened Blowie (I never know why my Dad found that so amusing), there was a slightly battered Fisher Price Telephone. It had wheels, and goggly eyes, and a little hook on the front. When you pushed the phone, the eyes rolled. Thinking myself rather clever, I realised I could loop some string through the hook, and pull him along. So, with my newly restored toy, I took him for a walk down the street.
I was having loads of fun, and really enjoying myself, and in almost exactly the same part of the street where I was laughed at yesterday for talking to a cat, I was laughed at by two passing girls.
My happiness turned sour. I thought I was doing something embarrassing and stupid, and I swept up my brilliant new toy and trotted off home, feeling all red and hot.
What’s worse is, I know I played with that toy loads more when I was young, but being laughed at for doing so is the only real memory I have of it now.
Why do bad memories stick with you more than good ones?