I hate being late. In fact I'd go so far as to say that if I am late it would be a good idea to pray for the accident I'm involved in. In my last parish JJ once, apparently, invited a meeting to pray for my survival when I was half an hour late (actually I was stuck in unanticipated traffic outside Torquay in winter).
Last night was going well. It was my day off so I was feeling slightly bitter about going out to a church do, albeit the licensing of a much-respected and well-liked colleague. I had left enough time to chop a few vegetables for Liz's supper, get changed and check the email about the arrangements so I knew where to meet everyone.
Chopping the vegetables I also chopped my left thumb. Small incision but blood everywhere. Searched for first aid box. Gave short prayer of thanksgiving that we had not needed it in six months since we moved, followed by short prayer of 'So where the hell did we put it then?' Phoned Liz. Answer phone. Carried on searching. Held tissue over cut and got dressed. Couldn't do buttons up on shirt.
Liz phoned. Identified wardrobe in bedroom as place for first aid stuff. Found it. Fiddly plasters. Can't get them undone without my left thumb.
Leave a bit late (but still in good time) having finished vegetable chopping with care. Forget to check the email. Arrive at church car park. No-one there. Check Rectory. No-one there. Check in church. Ballet class.
Drive home to check time and meeting place. Mobile rings. Pull over. 'Are you getting the coach?' Discover correct car-park to meet in. Turn up Station Road. School event. Traffic chaos. Just 400 yards away when phone rings again. 'Where are you now?'
Arrive 10 minutes late. Last on the coach. Thankfully others who plan meticulously have built this delay into their timing.
Liz says her tea was lovely. Licensing was good. The lovely Keith put the plaster on my thumb. It's fine this morning. No sign of wound at all. Liz says this will have been good for my humility. How?