The other day, I was waiting on a train platform, seething with irritation. The service was delayed, which meant I was going to be late meeting a friend at the theatre. It did not help that the venue was on the other side of London. It was one I had never visited before, so I had no idea how long it would take to walk from the station.
“Running just a wee bit late,” I text-fibbed, feeling a rush of remorse. I am not usually spectacularly late, unless I am extremely stressed, and then things turn ugly. I recall the time I had to do an interview with a French actor; unusually, our rendezvous was in the early evening at a cafe. I was already behind schedule and then got hopelessly lost. When I finally turned up, she was blotto, an empty bottle of red in front of her, and furious. More recently, it was the final day of my university degree show and we had to take down our frames by 4pm sharp when the building would close. But I was having a lovely lunch with friends and hadn’t noticed the time. At one minute to four, I was racing along the street when I tripped over a paving stone and went flying. That one cost me the use of my shoulder for nine months.
