Katy Gillett wonders if she should be late more often.
I have a near foolproof routine for waking up in the morning. I set three alarms, each fifteen minutes apart, and get out of bed as soon as I hear the third (I stay away from snooze, because let’s face it, that can be never-ending sometimes). However, recently, alarm three didn’t go off.
I was oversleeping but, luckily, my body seemed to recognise it hadn’t heard a noise in a while. That’s when I woke up with a jolt and the sudden realisation that I was late…
At this point I should probably tell you that I hate being late. Despite having grown up in the Gulf, my British sense of clock-watching is innate, and I haven’t been able to settle into ‘Doha timings’. In fact, my aversion to tardiness borders on the fanatical (like most good flaws, I trace this one back to my mother, who insists on always being early).
So, I panicked. I jumped out of bed, hurriedly dressed and bounded out of the door, heading to a rather important press conference (it had to be on that day my alarm decided to play up).
I got in the car and, unsurprisingly, my petrol gauge was blinking. I’d like to tell you that in that moment I remained calm, cool and collected, but my steering wheel would tell you otherwise. It took a bit of a hit.
Off I went to the petrol station to fill up with Super (I wasn’t taking any chances), but as I was pulling away, it dawned on me…
My phone. The phantom appendage I could not possibly attend a press conference without (how would I tweet?!). I knew where it was of course. I’d put it on the bathroom sink when I was debating whether or not I could go without showering (don’t worry, I did).
My poor steering wheel.
Fuming, I headed back to grab the phone and then set off again for round two. I was freshly cleansed, with a full tank, access to the Twittersphere and driving like an inexperienced Schumacher (but not breaking any speed limits, of course). I was practically begging those green lights not to start flashing.
Finally, I arrived, just over 30 minutes late (my mum would be appalled). As soon as I was inside, I ran over to the organiser, uttering profuse apologies for the extent of my delay. Just as I was explaining in far too much detail what went wrong, she stopped me and said, ‘Oh, don’t worry! We put that on the invite so people show up for it to start in half an hour.’
Ah, of course, Doha timings. I never learn.
I poured myself a cup of tea.
