It's strange. When I was up from London one weekend a couple of years ago, I went for a haircut. I recognised one of my tormentors, that I hadn't seen since the age of nine.
After she left I asked the girl who was cutting my hair to confirm she, yes I was bullied by an older girl, was the same girl that I though she was. I laughed and told her how I knew her. I was told she was an exceptionally nice woman, a good Mum, and was even a Sunday School teacher.
I hope she is nice now, and that if she even remembers making my life what seemed like a living hell, she regrets it. Still, I shouldn't really harbor feelings of sadness towards her...I should shake her hand for making me into the adorable little poppet I am today.
