Too Fast, Too Furious

This month Olly Mann examines a bad habit inherited from his father—always rushing things

- Olly Mann

At the time, I find an excuse. My meeting over-ran. Roadworks were unavoidable. My mother called me (Mum is unable to keep any conversation to under 30 minutes. She’d be the world’s worst emergency call operator). Or, I couldn’t find a car park space. Or: I found a car park space, but it was ages away from the meter, and it took forever to walk back. Or: I paid for the car park with an app, but got a Penalty Charge Notice anyway, so had to appeal it, because otherwise I’d forget to do it later, even though it wasn’t my fault, (thanks for nothing, Mr Traffic Warden).

I’m rushing constantly. When I pick my son up from nursery, I arrive on the dot at six. There’s no financial penalty for that, but there’s no time to discuss what he’s been doing all day, either. When I post a letter, I leap toward the postbox at the very moment the postman makes his final collection. Even an action replay couldn’t determine who touched it first. When I depart for the train station, I always remember something I’ve left inside the house—my umbrella, my specs, my smartphone—just as the door slams behind me. Then I’m rushing even harder. It’s important to note, I’m far from an athletic man. Yet I seem to spend much of my life breathlessly dashing about, like Anthony Edwards in ER.