I hate waiting.
I am, generally speaking, quite a patient person. I sat for an hour waiting for my number to come up to have a blood test last week and didn’t stress out in the slightest — well, apart from when the person behind me kept coughing, but that was just from a desperate desire to not catch yet another damn cold — I just took the opportunity to relax and people watch as I listened for my number to be called.
But there’s something about waiting for someone else that sets me on edge. Whether it’s waiting for a delivery to turn up (the cause of today’s lack of ease) or for an expected visitor to arrive or just for someone to do whatever it is they’ve said they will do. I can’t relax properly until it is done. Even if it’s not due to happen today, even if it’s scheduled for weeks in the future, there is a small corner of my brain that takes it upon itself to actively remember the who, what and when of the commitment.
So here I sit, waiting. My brain helpfully pointing out that normally orders from this shop would have been delivered by now. Unable to settle into doing anything that can’t be dropped the instant the doorbell goes or anything that could possibly stop me hearing the doorbell in the first place.
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Mischief & Me 