I’ve learned this week that patience is not my strong suit. As Christopher Hitchens has pointed out, patience is an over-rated virtue anyway. This was brought home to me yesterday when I had to wait in for two deliveries, neither of which had arrived by 4pm. By then, the sheer exhausting act of listening out for the door and the cabin fever was akin to Chinese water torture. Coupled with not feeling well, wrapped in a blanket and desperate for some sleep, I was, to put it mildly, grumpy by the end of the day.
Today has seen me in a better humour altogether. I’ve had a good sleep, which always helps. Despite having to face the hoy-poloy in Asda – a task which makes me shudder with dread (nothing to do with Asda, incidentally, which as a store, and with friendly staff and reasonable prices I heartily recommend; it just happens to be our nearest supermarket and I apply the same level of loathing to all supermarkets, deeming crossing their thresholds an exercise in endurance) this was at least offset by fussing a beautiful border collie puppy in the pet shop.
I reminded myself of the puppy when in Asda. Today someone had thrown up in one of the aisles. There were paramedics surrounding the prone body of an unconscious young woman in Aldi too. Clearly the good people of Kent aren’t coping with this glorious Indian summer.
Putting aside my momentary ill-health and the inconvenience delivery people put me to, I have at least been able to find ways to be productive and creative, and I now have two novels I’m on the brink of sending out. The very exercise in sending out the work is enough to bring all my demons careering around inside my head at the same time, but this is a barrier I must overcome.
Some people enjoy going to supermarkets. Some people are confident. Some people have the patience of Job.
I am not one of those people.