“Glenn Close, of course” started the speaker. I was relieved that the programme was underway, even though I had no idea what Glenn Close had to do with knowledge management.
“Have you any idea what time it is?” my sister snarled at me under her breath, tugging at my sleeve to drag me back to the hall’s entrance.
The hands on my watch had not moved since they last time I looked about an hour earlier, so I knew that it couldn’t possibly be 19:05. A quick glance round the hall told me that much of the food and drink had already been consumed, and the woman on stage was not the first of the evening. I guessed it must be about 21:00. When JMH announced it was 20:20, I was actually quite relieved: I was only an hour and twenty late. Of course she didn’t see it that way. She and my mother had come to the event as my supposed guests, but ended up running the show because my time management was so poor.
Time management was not the issue. Rather it was time per se. I had had so many commitments that day from lending gym gear to a deprived immigrant student to a meeting at the office of The Economist. When you were in as much demand as me, something was bound to give.
Dreamaticus 