When I was younger I used to be told I had a heart of stone. I would sit in front of a weepy film seemingly unaffected whilst the rest of my family whimpered into their Kleenex.
Perhaps this is why I am excessively empathetic as an adult.
Take the American drama, 24 for example. I would put a spoiler alert here but I don’t believe that there is anyone as archaic as me when it comes to catching up with Jack Bauer’s latest exploits. I am still just ploughing my way through series six.
Mid way through series five I was presented with a heart wrenching moment whereby the loveable chubby office geek -one who provoked the sympathetic head tilt every time he opened his mouth and uttered a mumbled sentence- met his premature end. He realised his demise just moments before it happened, his podgy little face uttering his best friend’s name as he collapsed on the floor amid a pile of brown polyester. My heart bled for this moment, I could not get over it. The image of his face would disrupt my thoughts for the next 24 hours and I would be relentlessly reminded as to how horrible this unreality actually was.
I seem to be plagued with taking fictional moments into my heart and letting them pluck at my strings until they snap. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t have it restrung.
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