Tuesday, March 23, 2004
I've never had problems with being on-time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sure as clockwork, I always wake up exactly one minute before my alarm goes off in the morning, my day is planned with an almost jackbooted military precision, and I have never once missed a train, a plane, or the opening of an envelope. Friends set their watches by me, and everyone knows I have a twenty-four-hours timetable for a brain and an atomic clock for a heart.
Of course, this has its downside too, and means I rather unfairly expect similar punctuality from others. The easiest way to turn me into the sort of sulking, sarcastic Stranger you can't help but slap is to turn up late, after having kept me waiting for, oh, a good ten minutes or so. It’s a throwback to the days when I worked entirely freelance, and every minute wasted was another few quid down the drain.
So what happened last night when I turned up at eight-ish when the invite clearly said seven-thirty sharp? Sorry, my dears, that wasn't Late, that was what's called Making An Entrance, and it is the sole prerogative of we who love to sing showtunes. And, besides, I always do aim to be worth the wait. . .