The thrill of running late

‘Dad, why is it that whenever we go anywhere, we’re always running to catch a train?’ asked Charlie, my 13-year-old. This was just over a week ago and Charlie and I, along with 16-year-old Ludo, were running from the Holiday Inn Express in Birmingham to Snow Hill station in the hope of catching the 7.25 p.m. to the Hawthorns. Miss that and we’d be in trouble because the next one wasn’t until 7.57 p.m. and we’d be late for kick-off. We were there to watch QPR play West Brom and the match started at 8 p.m.

Charlie’s right. He and I have vowed to go to as many QPR games as possible this season to make up for not being able to go a single match last season, but whenever we go to see them play away we usually end up in a mad dash to get to the stadium.

Sometimes this is unavoidable, particularly if the game is on a school night and I have to wait for the boys to get home. But it also happens when it’s eminently avoidable. The truth is, I’m a bit of an adrenalin junkie, except that instead of jumping out of planes I get my kicks from nearly missing departure times.

Needless to say, this doesn’t endear me to Caroline. On the day we left for our honeymoon, I insisted on returning my newly bought Skoda Octavia vRS to the dealership in Brentford on the way to Heathrow. I was convinced it would get stolen if I left it outside my flat in Shepherd’s Bush for two weeks and Citygate Skoda was more or less en route. The upshot was that we got to Terminal 3 just as the gate was closing and the jobsworth BA check-in clerk wouldn’t let us on the plane.