All the clocks in my life are wrong.
Not very wrong, just a couple of minutes fast or slow.
This causes me untold angst, as I have had it inculcated deep into my psyche that four minutes early is actually one minute late. And if I'm only three minutes early? Mein gott! Mission failure!
Unfortunately, despite this ingrained need to be punctual, I am also a pathological procrastinator. If I have a minute to spare I won't leave home and get there early. Instead I'll faff around wiping the benches and checking twitter. (Probably more likely the latter.)
This would be totally fine.
Except all the clocks are wrong.
So my morning goes something like this:
Eat Breakfast. Check the wall clock (5 mins fast). Panic and flail madly, throwing the dishes in the general direction of the sink and then running to the bathroom. Extra points for corners taken at a slide in socks.
Shower like I am being pursued by ravenous wolves (very scary in a confined space). Hop out, and peek around the corner at the bedroom clock (3 mins slow). Congratulate myself on managing to shower and wash my hair all in a single minute. Dawdle through picking clothes and getting generally gussied up.
Put on my watch (3 mins fast). Oh sweet merciful lemons, where did the time go? How could putting on jeans possibly have taken a full twenty minutes! Panic. Flail madly. Yell directions about hats and jackets at the children while trying to wrestle my shoe off the dog.
Hop one footed to the kitchen, channeling the vibe of a very speedy flamingo. Check the microwave clock (5 mins slow). Ah ha! I am a Time Lord! I suspected as much. Somehow I have jumped through a portal in the hallway and gained eight minutes. Put together a snack and pack our bags as quickly as a snail stuck in treacle.
Then check my watch... and run to playschool.
I need to standardise my clocks. But hey, who has the time? (*Boom tish*)