For as long as I can remember, I have always had issues with lateness.
My inability to understand how time works seems to be interwoven with my DNA. In kindergarten, I’d be late getting back to class after recess. As a teenager, I would – no matter what – find myself running to netball (the courts were at the end of my street) as the buzzer for the first quarter sounded. On Saturday night I literally turned up four hours late to a friend’s birthday party.
To be clear, in no way do I think this behaviour is okay. I hate myself because of it. Being late gives me great anxiety, and I am ordinarily a polite and considerate human being. But for some reason, ‘lateness’ seems to be a feature of my personality I cannot change.