This post has no diet value at all, if that’s what you’re after.
I learnt something one morning last week:
I am considered very reliable, so much so that if I’m late for a meeting my colleagues fear that I’m lying near death or actually dead in a ditch.
I’m quite proud of this but obviously wouldn’t have found out unless I’d been late.
I hate to be late.
The morning in question was a bit lemony snickets, that is, I was late due to a series of unfortunate events. I couldn’t find my phone, eventually I left for work without it, the main car park was closed for some, unspecified reason, therefore all others were over subscribed. I had to park a good distance away from the building I work in. I arrived to the usual venue, no one, 2nd usual venue, no one. Checked emails, new venue across the campus near where I’d had to park car. I arrived five minutes late, only I’d got the start time wrong so was actually thirty five minutes late and because no one could get me on my phone due to its lost status, the near death, ditch scenario was put forward as the only possible reason for my tardiness. My usual anal, professional timekeeping would have had me there on time even for a meeting half an hour earlier than I expected.
Back in the day I had a reputation for being late, often very late. I couldn’t understand how I could be late consistently. I always allowed 30 mins to get places but sometimes I’d wait 15-30 for a bus, add traffic, multiply that by distance and it’s pretty obvious that I just wasn’t applying myself to the problem.
I was cured one New Years Eve in the 1980s. Shamed.
News years eve is potentially stressful every year, finding the right party, the enforced jollity required, the anticipation of..who knows what. So an invite to dinner with good friends was snapped up, added bonuses were that one was Italian and cooked well and worked as a wine merchant. Win win win.
I had already decided that my New Years resolution was going to be to sort out my time keeping and I’d also decided to showcase the new me on the eve itself. The invite was verbal, I knew where they lived and I had it in mind that I was due to arrive at 9pm. I got home from visiting a friend at 6.15. Loads of time to get gorgeous and get there. I lived in a big house, bizarrely named Westward Ho! The exclamation mark was present in the name, not added by me as a comment on its absurdity. The house was loosely divided into sections, you couldn’t really describe them as flats or apartments. In the hallway there was a wall mounted pay phone. Anyone of the residents would take a message for any of the other residents and pin it on the wall. Yes youngsters, that’s how we used to roll.
Fat Tart, H says, don’t forget dinner at 7pm.
WTF? I thought it was 9! No leisurely bath tub soak, I changed my clothes, added extra makeup, shot out the door, got a cab, arrived just fifteen minutes late.
But no, I wasn’t late at all, I was nearly two hours early. My friend who rang with the reminder, unaware of the new me, thought, she’s always late, I’ll tell her an hour earlier, she might get here on time. My friend who took the message, likewise unaware of the new me, thought, she’s always late, I’ll tell her an hour early, she might actually get there on time.
My hosts weren’t even dressed when I turned up. The Italian wouldn’t allow me in the kitchen. I sat alone in the lounge looking through magazines. I played the party tapes and danced alone. I drank so much Perrier Jouet while waiting for the other guests, that I could barely see them when they eventually arrived more or less on time. That said it really was a great party, or was I just grateful to have company at last? Anyhow I was pretty much cured of my poor timekeeping.
Left to my own devices I’m barely ever late nowadays and on the rare occasion that I am, people think I must be dead.
fat tart 