Matthew Donnelly laments lateness and how for some it has become a personality trait
There are few experiences lonelier than sitting alone in a pub, awaiting the arrival of the person you have agreed to meet.
Last week, I arranged to have a drink with a good friend at the Lamb and Flag in Oxford. We agreed to meet at 7pm. I arrived five minutes early – as one should – claimed a corner seat, and ordered a pint.
At 7.10pm, I checked my phone. A single message: ‘Sorry mate. 10 mins.’ Fine. Annoying, but fine. At half-past, I finished my pint and, with very little hesitation, ordered a second.
Another 45 minutes. By this point, I had read every pump clip on the bar, inspected every mycelium of mould on the windowsill and was feeling like a complete plonker.
Was I surprised by my friend’s lateness? No, I wasn’t. He is always late.
What offends me about this particular brand of lateness is what it silently communicates. Through consistently arriving late to planned meetings, the offender makes it clear they don’t particularly value your time.
Lateness is a reliable predictor of broader self-absorption. Serial latecomers tend to be people who talk over others and make every conversation about themselves.
And yet they always seem to arrive with an air of mild pride: ‘I’m just a late person.’ They describe it as something fixed, chromosomal in origin and entirely beyond the reach of personal responsibility.
I refuse to accept this.
In the 1970s, if two friends agreed to meet at the pub at 7pm, they arrived at 7pm. With no mechanism by which one could, at 6:55pm, fire off a breezy ‘Running a bit late, order me a pint’ text, people made plans. They left home earlier than they thought they needed to, leaving time for the unexpected.
The infrastructure for punctuality is still available to us. It’s called leaving the house earlier.
