I hate waiting, no, I mean I REALLY hate waiting.

Waiting for trains, waiting in lines, waiting to find a car park, anything to do with not being able to do, what I want to do, when I want to do it, got it?

You will always know when I’m waiting, the black cloud over my head, the one with the lightning bolts flashing, and the thunder rolling, that’s me, when I’m waiting.

Why is it that God made two kinds of people, ones who are early, and ones who are late. I don’t mean once or twice, or if the car breaks down, these inconsiderate wretches are always late, but not just a minute or two here or there, no, we’re talking fifteen to twenty minutes, every damn time!

How many times have you heard, “Sorry I’m late,” all from the same person. I’d like to have a pocket full of AA batteries, I’d hand them one and then wait for the question, “What’s that for,” and my answer, nicely wrapped in vitriol would be, “For your alarm clock!”

But sadly, it’s more than likely, after that one act of sweet revenge, they would be late again, the very next day.

It was my father’s fault I think. Dad would be early for any and everything, sometimes embarrassingly so. There is a family story that he drove to work with a flat tyre, refusing to stop, as he was unwilling to cause someone to wait for him at a shift change, while he changed the wheel. It would have taken maybe five minutes.

Poor mum, how many hours did she have to wait outside a shop, a doctor’s rooms, or any planned activity. I never saw her as a patient woman, but she must have learned patience the hard way. Of course, she invariable rode her push bike, that would explain a lot.