I hate waiting. I’m really bad at it.

See, I’m impatient at the best of times, and P frequently accuses me of wanting everything at once. It’s true. Despite my previous assertion that I measure out life in doses of delayed gratification, the truth is that that’s fine as long as I’m the one delaying it. Making myself wait, fine. Other people making me wait, very unfine indeed.

If someone says they’ll pop over this afternoon sometime, I’m completely stuck. Since they might arrive and interrupt me at any time, it’s difficult to start anything properly - you can’t embark on a movie or a project or anything which requires concentration , because at any moment, just when you’re engrossed in whatever you’re soing, the doorbell will go. Or you’ll be watching the movie with half an ear on the street outside, listening for the tell-tale sound of brakes or doors slamming.

Waiting in for engineers who cannot commit to a specific time period is hell, especially as you have to take a day off to do it, then wake up disgustingly early, in case they magically arrive at the earliest time, which they will never do, except on the occasion that you sleep in.

If, on the other hand, they say they’ll be over at five, I’m ok, because i can structure my afternoon around the appointment.

Unless they are late - and they almost always are.

In a way, waiting around because of lateness for a specific appointment is more tortuous than waiting for a visit which could occur at any time at all, because you are aware that you are most definitely waitinq rather than possibly waiting.

If you are definitely waiting, you can’t qo to the loo, because you just know that that will be the precise moment the engineer will choose to ring the doorbell.

Waiting elsewhere, however, is a total pain in the arse. Appointments, collecting things, flights, anything which causes you to have to hang around interminably causes me immense frustration - especially when i’m tired and on the verqe of falling asleep.

And so i wait for my prescription, in the bowels of the hospital. An hour and counting.

A blonde woman tells the harrassed receptionist about the terrible plague of mosquitos down by the river at Chiswick. The woman behind the counter interposes her astonished reaction and responses with instructions to other patients approaching the hatch to collect their medicines and treatments:

“Number eighty nine? Dovonex? Number ninety? Nasonex? Number eighty seven? Apply this to the affected area, but only when it hurts… Eight tablets every morning for five mornings…this cream expires on christmas day, but you’ll be ok for a few days after that… number ninety one?”

I am number fourteen. There is a long time left to wait.