My wife likes to claim that I am an impatient fellow.
‘Not so,’ I often counterclaim, citing all sorts of ways in which I exhibit vast reserves of tolerance. (Most of these occasions coincide with shopping trips involving women’s clothes shops, where immense forbearance is required if the maximum number of Brownie Points are to be extracted.)
However, I suspect that my defence has today been severely undermined with an own goal.
For some time I have had my mind set upon achieving the academic heights of a Master of Arts. Having carefully explored the concept, in the early hours of this morning I ordered the entire reading list for my chosen subject.
The on-line book seller, Amazon.co.uk, is very efficient and during the course of the morning I received a variety of e-mails informing me that various parcels have been despatched.
The trouble began some two hours later when I casually enquired of my wife as to whether the postman had been today. Her immediate response was to ask what I was expecting to arrive; a question which made even me think that perhaps I was being just a teeny weenie bit impatient on this particular occasion.
The Concise Oxford English Dictionary defines impatience as ‘lacking patience or tolerance; restlessly eager’. I like to think that the latter of the two definitions applies to me. At least, that is to be my defence from now on.
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