He was late he didn’t like it one bit. Why wouldn’t this car go any faster? What a time! He felt frustrated and angry. Snow! Traffic in chaos; cars abandoned at the roadside. Drivers couldn’t cope
Aggravated now, Feeling shame and humiliation. He hated being late.
Making excuses
Here he was, fifty-seven years and never late for anything since school.
He was furious.
He would make excuses. The weather, incompetent drivers
Blame anyone but himself, but would it make him feel better?
No probably not
But wait. I don’t need to apologise. This is my day, my fifteen minutes of fame, this is all about me.
After all he was the late Leonard Griffin and if a person can’t be late for his own funeral what can he be late for?
© Norma Allan 2005
posted by quine @ 1:49 am
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