Friday faffing

Q: What do you call a lorry with wheels of treacle and a cargo of sloths driven by a somnambulant?

A: The vehicle that’s always in front of me when I’m late.

Which does make me ponder the question as to whether:

a) There’s a conspiracy among the timely to make the tardy even later than they expected to be, which is exercised by precision dispatch of lumbering behemoths onto the municipal highway to positions just ahead of the pants-seat wannabe time traveller

or

b) There are plenty of slow-moving vehicles around all the time and you just notice them more pointedly when you’re late

Being of a somewhat tardy disposition, I’ve wasted enough time - and smoked too many cigarettes - in this situation over the years to actually think about it. Naturally, conspiracy theory gets my vote. Otherwise I’d be forced into a personal purgatory of having to take more responsibility for my own actions and habits; primarily the conscious reduction of essential faffing time (with a side order of forethought).

The goody two shoes smug always-on-timers really pulled a coup de grace today though, for which I am forced to admit a small degree of admiration. No sooner had I escaped being stuck behind an almost backwards-moving Polish juggernaut than up popped a fork-lift truck to trap me once more. To be straight on the issue, it didn’t actually pop up out of the road surface like a highly detailed 3-D animated metallic character from an origami manual. But it did slip cat-like and cunning from an industrial park road before I could exercise avoidance manoeuvres, which is similar (if less creative) in reality.

When one is in this situation it is pointless getting worked up over it, for that way lies steering-wheel thumping, excessive engine revving and inappropriate horn / swear word usage. No. Fundamentally you have to accept that the real reason you’re late is because of your own incompetence and / or over-optimistic journey time estimation. In any event, time that has passed can never be recaptured no matter how many red lights you jump.

However, today the conspiracy spheres had aligned themselves in such a way as to allow me to witness a wonderful event. I was moving at about 0.5mph and idly gazing out of the passenger window of the car. Being pushed along the pavement towards me was a wheelbarrow with a three seater settee balanced on top. The steering of the barrow was in the hands of a most joyous-looking man who was chatting in highly animated conversation with his wife and three children. They were clearly delighted at their find, and rightly so; the pavement emporium is strewn with gifts of this sort if you have eyes for a bargain. Looking back at them as they passed by, I saw that there was also a large fluffy sheepskin rug atop the sofa.

When I eventually arrived at the pub where I was joining my colleagues for a pre-emptive goodbye-to-the-nearly-departed-from-the-organisation lunch, everybody else had already ordered their food. I flicked through the menu and then squinted up at the specials board before confirming my choice. There, chalked on the blackboard, was the offer of the most surprising menu item I’ve ever seen: Oven Baked Loin of God.

On reflection, it might have said cod. But I ordered chicken and chips to be on the safe side. I didn’t want to add yet another string to the bow of the journey saboteurs.