Being British I have this innate ability to wait or queue up which is required at the time. Or so we’d like to think. We only discover just how untrue this is when we actually have to wait. And we wait everywhere: for buses, for taxis, for trains, plane automobiles, something to happen, something end, for people to stop having meetings in shop doorways. We wait even when we have an appointment which without fail will be late. I have to wait for people to go to the lavatory then clean up afterwards! I wait for people to get ready then I wait for them to get in the car and wait for them to get out of it.
Waiting, waiting, waiting, it should be an Olympic sport, I’d be a champion. Right now, for once, I’m not waiting for anything not even for one of children to do anything – nor the wife. I’m actually sitting having a rant, something that I never knew could be so satisfying.
Rant, Rant, Rant.
I don’t know what this old world is coming to but I bet there’s a queue somewhere out there forming right now of people waiting to find out. Where ever that particular queue is I for one will not be joining it. I have no interest in where the world is heading as it spins around and around following its elliptical path around the sun that’s waiting to die, apparently. I know where it’s going. It’s round to have another go and see if anyone is queuing up ahead of it.
That’s enough of this nonsense, I’m of to form an orderly queue at the fridge.
