“That mad woman, believe it or not, was me”

CLOSE your eyes and picture this.

Actually, you’ll need to open them back up to find out what to picture. Ready? Good. A big city street on a hot Friday night — cabs beeping, drunks hollering, stall-holders leaning on their sweeping brushes, and a mad woman running through the lot — scattering pigeons and bowler-hatted businessmen in her wake.

That mad woman, believe it or not, was me. Me, known throughout the land as a graceful woman, a calm woman and — less relevant to this occasion but worth mentioning — a woman with a great new recipe for kedgeree.

Why did I throw my even-keel reputation to the panic wolves? Why did I fly through the streets, ducking under buses, yelling at traffic lights and pushing old ladies into the river when they didn’t move fast enough?

I wasn’t being pursued by the Revenue. They don’t know I’ve moved to the UK (I don’t plan on telling them either, so keep that to yourself and please burn this paper after reading).

I wasn’t transporting an organ for transplant, unless you count all the ones I keep in my torso, which you’re more than welcome to when I’ve used them.

I wasn’t late for a date, no indeed. I’m being very precious with myself in that department. Total lockdown, baby and it feels good. Well, it just feels numb, and right now, that’s better than good.

Anyway, the reason I was busting a gut on a London street was this — I was trying to make it to a musical on time.

You would think, then, that I care deeply for the stage and all that happens on its magnificent old boards.

I’m afraid you’d be wrong. I wouldn’t exactly burn every theatre to the ground if I thought I could get away with it, but I would say this: I am not mad about musical theatre. Mainly because it combines two things I find uncomfortable to watch — namely, acting and singing.

When I watch acting, all I can think is “Oh — he’s really acting. Look at him, acting” and when I hear singing, all I can think is “Fine, but not as moving as Shania Twain”.

She has it all — a potent combination of sass, shiny hair and a difficult personal life. I believe her when she says she feels like a woman.

Sitting in the audience, I invariably get to thinking about Shania Twain and begin to hum ‘Looks Like We Made It’ to myself, forgetting to concentrate on the plot of the show, such as it is.

The thing is, I just hate being late. It’s so public when you’re late for a show — whispering apologies as you squeeze rows of strangers — I haven’t enjoyed that since the No Name discos in Cobh.

An entire audience can see you are a disorganised mess, unable to deal with adult life. And that’s exactly the kind of thing you need to keep a secret.

Being late is my nightmare, my scariest nightmare. Scarier even than getting into bed and touching my bare foot onto a living carp or pike, and that carp or pike stirring sleepily.

I can’t even bear being late for things I don’t want to do. Dental appointments, hen nights, funerals — I’m there with 10 minutes to spare. It’s not easy. Not as easy as sending a series of “There in five… sowwy” text messages and definitely not as easy as arriving whenever you feel like it.

I don’t want to be that late person. The only person worse than a late person is a late person with a cup of coffee in hand. Fury takes hold of me when I’m faced with a latte-clutching smile of apology.

How can someone hope to disguise a deliberate stop-off in a café with a murmured “Bus was late”? I mean, I ask you.

The sad thing about all of this is that, apart from Stephen Hawking, I seem to be the only person who cares about time. Everyone else is late. No matter how many tight-lipped dirty looks I shoot, everyone is always late.

Regardless of all the watches I’ve given out over the years as birthday, Ramadan and Hanukkah gifts, I cannot make other people punctual. I can only be punctual myself.

If that means risking death by running in front of traffic, horse trampling, or simply lung explosion, I’ll do it.

Dead or alive, I’ll be right on time.