Nothing shouts "move!" quite like a fork up the arse

There is very little in this world that irritates me, that causes me to loose my shit, as much as slow people. I may have mentioned this before or maybe I haven’t, but if this internet relationship is going to go any further, you need to know that I am among the most impatient people on the planet.

I hope you can accept me for who I am. A part of the blame goes to the genes my mother gave me, a part to my neuroticism and finally a part to logic because, really, who needs to move that slowly? If you need ten minutes to mount one step at the train station, I suggest you inch your way towards the middle of the street and ease yourself under the wheels of a bus. Or I might just ease you there with the use of a kitchen utensil.

Too brutal? Let me tell you a little story that may make you look a little more kindly on my dark soul:

Two mornings and one afternoon in a row I’ve missed my train because of slow step-climbers; people who climb stairs so gloriously slow that had the understanding, patient Playschool presenter with the encouraging eyes been there (you know the one that spends hours a day talking to a teddy bear looking all patient and encouraging? Yeah her), she would have cracked these people over the back of the head with the square-shaped window or the rocket clock. They were that slow.

And these are four separate people. All vying for the award of Slowest Person In The World, while I – already crowned The Most Impatient Person on The Planet – make all of the movements and noises I can to indicate that I’m irritated, impatient and about to miss my train. You know, noises like “Excuse me.” “Can I just get by” “Excuse me!” Nothing. Just more slow stair-walking.

But this epidemic isn’t new and it isn’t restricted to public transport. A few thousand years ago slow-moving neanderthals had slow, sloppy sex and passed on their genes to generations of slow-moving individuals. And the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren of the original slow-movers are not messing about. They are getting jobs in stores, supermarkets, theatres, call centres and offices and then performing them very, very slowly. It. Drives. Me. Insane.

I have now developed a special breathing technique. It originated a couple of months ago when I went to a writing seminar. I was keeping on the edge of my industry, I was keen and I asked Mark to drive me. And because I was so keen we rocked up at the venue 45 minutes before the seminar was starting, so I decided that maybe I should fuel my keenness with a cup of coffee and a croissant.

So we walked into a relatively empty cafe and ordered a soy latte, a croissant with jam and a large chocolate milkshake. But the frazzled assistant was also making one cappuccino, one long black and two babycinos and she had no help which wouldn’t be a problem for a normal person, but she was a slow-mover. So it took 45 minutes.

Wait what? Yes; three quarters of an hour for her to make my coffee, Mark’s milkshake and smear jam on my croissant. There were several stages during which I had to suppress an urge to leap over the counter and complete all of her orders – while also cleaning the coffee machine, doing the dishes and taking a 30-minute nap with all of that extra time – but since Mark is The World’s Calmest and Most Understanding Person, I took a leaf out of his book and spent the time breathing heavily. It helped. It is now my coping mechanism.

The point of this rant? If you see a mad-looking woman breathing heavily behind you, that’s your cue to walk faster or move out of the way because she might just lose it and get out her prodding fork.