Whilst queuing for my coffee yesterday at Woolies - yes, queuing, because The Spot Cafe has closed and the Emporium Cafe is now busy, busy - I glanced across and noticed a rather long line at the nearby sushi bar.

It got me thinking about how much of our lives we spend waiting. For all sorts of things.

These days, of course, we have ways to while away the time. Someone invented the mobile phone. Scrolling aimlessly seems to have become the favourite way to endure the wait, to pass the time, and finally reach the end of the queue - and the service we came for.

Waiting has never been my strong suit. In fact, I’m very bad at it.

Even now, though I’m working on it, I freely admit I still have little patience.

As a child, I was a master of the “Are we there yet?” syndrome, which drove my parents metaphorically mad.

“Wait till your father gets home,” was a frequent threat from Mum whenever my sisters and I misbehaved - which was almost daily. I could never quite see the point of waiting just to be yelled at by Dad.

The teenage years brought their own trials. Waiting for school exam results, waiting for boyfriends to call, waiting for just about anything was a torturous exercise.

Job interviews were no better. Waiting for a call - there were no mobile phones then - meant one long, nervous, apprehensive wait for the landline to ring, or for the mail to arrive.

A short corporate career, followed by years as a small business owner, brought some unexpected relief. My restlessness and impatience became an advantage: if something needed doing, I did it straight away. Procrastination? Not for me, thank you very much.

Then came childbirth - four times. My impatience was legendary. Nurses, doctors, and quite possibly my unborn children likely had a little laugh at my expense: “Just hurry up and get born, baby!”

Strangely, the childrearing years became less frantic. With so much to do each day, there was no time for impatience. By then I had discovered jogging and the gym. Happy days. Exercise calmed my soul.

Now, being a tad older, my affliction is easing. I don’t buy online, I don’t click-and-collect, I avoid home delivery. If I need something, I go out and buy it. I rarely play the waiting game. Bliss.

Until last week. The Universe paid me back for my history of impatience.

I was having outside carpentry work done at home for the first time, waiting on a timber delivery from a well-known timber and hardware merchant.

Up at 6am, showered, dressed, breakfasted, waiting.

And waiting. And getting agitated.

Until 2pm.

As a result, the carpenter had to go to another job. My job had to wait. Apparently, these days, you can’t ask where your delivery is - you just wait.

At 2pm it arrived. With one batch of the wrong-sized timber. The very timber needed to start the job. It could have been completed before the scheduled week of rain about to hit Kiama. But now it won’t be.

The replacement timber arrived the next day at 9.30am.

The waiting wasn’t so bad this time - I let hubby handle it while I slept in.