...and don't panic! The Know brings you advice during housing
A true friend is always there for you, especially when you're drunk.
Miss Quit regresses to her childhood this week as the prospect of beginning the "University of Life" looms.
The White Rabbit did a lot of damage to the late-comer’s rep. Excuses will only get you so far, especially when it comes to being on time. Somehow, claiming you’re an over-grown bunny with a dodgy watch doesn’t usually cut it.
Many of us suffer from this chronic form of a common illness, against our wishes I might add. It was pretty much preordained that I would be punctually-challenged. This became wholly apparent at the outset of life, when I was two weeks late for my own birth. So, this week I attempted to fight the inherent late gene and arrive at least ten minutes early for everything.
It was a nice idea.
The common misconception that busy people are never late only stands true when the alleged ‘business’ runs on schedule. Life being what it is that hardly happens, and when it does its just good luck. Or an alarm clock with a decent buzzer.
The weekend turned out to be a blurred rush of last-minutes and just-in-times. Having returned home for birthday celebrations, the schedule was particularly tight, with no room for the slightest bout of late-itis. In other words, I was doomed.
So far, the morning was going without a hitch. I sauntered into my nail appointment promptly and in possession of my breath. Then came the second half of the day. Having enjoyed a carefree, leisurely lunch, I realised that my hair appointment started 5 minutes ago, as I sat there swilling a glass of pink wine. Somewhat tipsy I dashed into the salon, accosting a slightly dazed styling assistant and barely avoiding what could have been a very unpleasant airborne-straighteners-related burn. So much for inconspicuous punctuality.
Now, before I continue with my tale of woe, I must say that the idea of being pampered is far more relaxing than the reality. Yes yes, I know, I will find ANYTHING to complain about, but in this case the pressure to relax resulted in nothing but anxiety and hassle.
Four hours later my hair was still being primped and pulled, and the notion of a ‘nice dinner’ was dimishing quicker than my hairlength. The no-late-admittance policy of London’s theatres added that extra incentive to leave, as if the withering look of disappointment from my mum wasn’t enough. So with a rushed word of appreciation as I glanced at the back of my own head in the oval mirror, I hastily made my exit and leaped into the waiting car.
Two hours and a hastily scoffed meal later, indigestion and increased pulses permeated through my family and I as we arrived at curtain up. After much pleading and eyelash-batting at the ushers, we settled down to enjoy the show. Phew and phew.
Ironically, I’m very good at being late, but not so good at waiting for others. I guess that figures. ‘No one important is ever present to appreciate punctuality’. I like that phrase. Now all I have to figure out is how to be important.
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