THE LATE BLYTH CRAWFORD
I have a hatred of being late. For anything. To the point where I exhibit symptoms of panic if I feel I'm not going to be on time for something. Which makes for some interesting moments when you live with someone who is a bit more relaxed on the subject of timekeeping and you are depending on them to keep your own fears at bay. How did I get to be like this?
It would be simple to blame my mother. So I will. She ingrained good timekeeping practice into me from an early age. This was someone who was, in her own way, so self effacing she'd always put herself out so as not to inflict any minor discomfort or annoyance on others (and then moan about them afterwards). She had, I suppose, a low sense of self worth and sought to stay in the background most of the time. Which might explain her total failure to understand of my desire to get up on a stage and perform in front of strangers. But that's another story.
Prime among her minor phobias was this fear of inconveniencing anyone by being even a minute late for any kind of appointment, be it with a doctor or an old friend. Of course these things did matter more in the old world. That one that didn't have mobile phones in it. Then you often made arrangements several days ahead of the actual event and there was no more communication on the matter. You turned up at the agreed time and place with only plague, flood or an attack from alien zombies being acceptable excuses for lateness.
And that was perfectly good and proper. If you didn't turn up when you said you would then the other poor sod, more punctual than you, had to stand around like a lemon with no means of finding out what the cause of the delay was. (I say standing because that seemed to be another forgotten feature of the society that once was - you arranged to meet people outside of places and not in them, a not entirely sensible policy in our rain drenched climate. Was it a fear of having to spend money?) That, at least when meeting friends, is no longer the case. And yet I still hate the idea that I might be the one to hold things up. That imbued self-effacement lives on in me somewhere.
It's different if the time being aimed for is for something more formal. An appointment at the dentist maybe. Professional people have schedules to keep, and if you delay them it's not so much the impact on that person themself as the possible knock on into the lives of others who are waiting to see them. Of course they will have contingency built into their timetables, if they have any sense, but you are never aware of how much.
I think my greatest fear is of being late for performances. Concerts, gigs, plays, films. Whatever it is I want to be there early. There are several good reasons for this (he says in preparation of defending the semi-indefensible) even if I know it's that maternal legacy providing the underlying driver.
Consideration for others. Not a fashionable approach it seems, although it still has some life in it. The old adage that you should treat others as you would want to be treated yourself. Which only works if everyone is the same. But not everybody cares. Nonetheless I know how much I hate it when people barge their way into an audience once a performance has begun. (These are the occasions when I have to speak sternly to my inner reactionary, that querulous voice that is but one Daily Fail article away from shouting that hanging's too good for these people....) It's irritating at best, and can entirely spoil the evening at worst (if you end up missing a critical turning point in a plot). It's one thing at a folk gig, another entirely at a theatre (where I'd happily have late entrants banned until the interval, as happened once upon a time). The only time it may be welcome is at the sort of stand up where the on stage talent will take the piss out of latecomers without mercy. Now there’s a custom which could be employed more widely in life.
Then there's my pretentious, lovey side. I've been a performer (darling) and know what it’s like to have to put up with disturbances in the auditorium due to late entrants. If you're a comedian and armed to ad lib then it's just more material. If you're delivering a carefully scripted and directed ensemble piece then it's a pain in the arse and can potentially ruin the flow of the actors (lovey). I don't want to be the one who's responsible for 'that' moment. Thanks Mum.
None of which excuses the state I get myself into sometimes. If I've stated a time to leave the house by then it's been thought through, carefully calculated. And then had a whopping great slice of contingency and anti-panic time inserted for my own peace of mind. Which nonetheless will often translate into just-in-time, or worse. One of the worst feelings on earth is being sat on the top desk of a bus, able to see the stationary traffic laid out before you like a time-sucking chastity belt. You know where you want to be and that there's no way to influence events to get you there. Aaaargh!
So I get a bit of a sweat on. Maybe a mild tremor. The foot jiggles as if directed by a puppet master with Parkinson's. The voice rises a fraction in pitch and delivers a load of bollocks. Either statements of the bleeding obvious, or rants against the universe in general, or possibly describing the mother of the driver of the car that's inexplicably blocking the junction ahead. Rational doesn't stand a chance.
It's the same with going for trains. Or planes. Or the cheap deal in the restaurant. Worse still, the genuine uncertainty of the unallocated ticket, where you don't know how early you need to arrive to get THAT seat. Well, one with a decent view anyway.
There is no cure. I am condemned to a life of perpetual time anxiety. If only I could just relax and enjoy it....
