I Hate Just in Time

Five minutes early, one hour late, a barbecue going cold and an old friend who would get into his car at two in the morning. My clock has rules, but fortunately life keeps arguing with them.

By Ralf the Grillmeister.

I am normally early.

Not dramatically early. I do not want to arrive while somebody is still in the shower. But if we have an appointment at ten o’clock, I like to be there a little before ten. Then there is time for a coffee, a private conversation, maybe a little nonsense before we come to the serious part.

Five minutes after ten, however, I begin to think.

Where is he?

Then something strange happens. My first thought is not necessarily, Why is he late? It can be, Have I made a mistake? Did I write down the wrong time?

So I send a WhatsApp.

That probably tells you quite a lot about me.

My Father Was Already Wearing His Jacket.

I did not invent this relationship with the clock. When I was young, if my father said, “We leave at eight,” then five minutes before eight he was standing there with his jacket on, ready to go. My mother was also punctual. My sister somehow developed a completely different system.

One Christmas we were visiting her and my father had said he wanted to eat at six. There were children, Christmas lights, preparations and all the normal family things, so six became half past six. He accepted that. Seven o’clock came. Still no food. At half past seven the meal finally arrived on the table and my father basically said, “No. I wanted to eat at six. Now it is too late.”

And he did not eat.

Even I think that is extreme.

But there was never much confusion in our house about what a time meant. Later, during my apprenticeship, the clock became practical. We had to be there at 7:45, change our clothes, be in the workshop by 7:50 and be ready when the garage opened at eight.

Then came the military, which has an extremely efficient method of teaching punctuality. Arrive late and somebody can tell you to do fifteen push-ups or run around somewhere. I quickly discovered that I had absolutely no interest in doing sport in the morning because I had arrived late.

Problem solved.

The military then sent me to Sardinia, where time became more interesting. On an international airbase we needed things at particular times: water, equipment, kerosene for the aircraft. You said nine o’clock. At nine o’clock, you waited. At 9:15, perhaps the tanker arrived.

Eventually we became very relaxed about fifteen minutes. We planned for it.

Working with people from different countries also showed me that everybody has their own relationship with the clock, although there are always exceptions. You learn quite quickly that your own system is not the only one available.

Mine, however, never really disappeared.

Even today, if traffic becomes a problem and I know I will be late, I call. “Sorry, I will be half an hour late.”

For me, that changes everything. Being late can happen. Life happens. Traffic happens. Customers talk longer than expected. A train ends up somewhere it was apparently never supposed to be.

But saying nothing? That I do not like.

“I’m on my way” is also not enough information.

Where are you? Did you just leave the house? Are you already in the next village? Are you still looking for your shoes?

Tell me, “I will be there in fifteen minutes.”

Now I can work with that.

Never Give a Late Person the Real Barbecue Time.

Punctuality becomes especially important when food is involved. If I invite people for a barbecue, the food has timing. Meat does not care that somebody has decided to arrive an hour late.

I have one very old friend, Andreas, and with him lateness has become part of the friendship. If I say six o’clock, there is a reasonable possibility he will arrive much later. Sometimes he phones and says, “We will be fifteen or twenty minutes late.”

Fine. I adjust the barbecue.

Then an hour later they arrive and the meat is finished.

I hate that.

So there is a practical solution. If I want somebody there at six, perhaps I tell them five.

This is not dishonesty. This is advanced barbecue logistics.

And yet Andreas is still one of the people I trust most. If I called him at two o’clock in the morning and said, “Andreas, I have a problem,” he would get into his car. No discussion.

When we were young, I once had a problem getting home while my mother needed work done at the house. I could not make it. Andreas simply took a day of holiday and went to help.

That is worth considerably more than arriving at precisely 17:59.

So punctuality and reliability are not exactly the same thing.

I still want him to arrive before the meat is destroyed, of course.

I have standards.

The Morning I Broke My Own Rules.

There was also one memorable occasion when I managed to break my own rules completely. I had recently started at a company and we had one of our first big meetings together. Before I went, my wife told me, “Please, do not drink too much.”

“Yes, yes. No problem.”

After dinner, at about nine, I announced that I was going to bed. My boss suggested one last drink.

One last drink became another last drink, which became another one.

Eventually I went to bed at about four in the morning.

The next thing I remember was the telephone ringing. People were already sitting in the meeting room.

They were waiting for me.

I had to present my numbers for the next year.

I went from bed to bathroom, cleaned my teeth, put on clothes and appeared in the meeting with my hair going in every possible direction. I was still in my probation period.

Wonderful.

I thought this could be the shortest career in company history.

Later my boss came to me and said, “No problem.” Apparently I was not the first person in the history of company meetings to discover alcohol.

What stayed with me was his reaction. Sometimes somebody makes a mistake and you simply say: it is not good, but it is not a catastrophe.

I Hate Just in Time.

Airports are where my relationship with the clock becomes most obvious.

I hate arriving just in time.

If we have a flight late enough in the morning that we could theoretically drive from home, I still prefer to travel to a hotel near the airport the day before. Park the car. Sleep. Get up. Have breakfast. Drink coffee. Take the shuttle.

Simple.

People laugh at me.

I do not care.

A relative of mine once drove to the airport for a holiday and got stuck on the motorway. The result was simple: missed flight.

For me, that is enough evidence. Why should I begin my holiday sitting in a traffic jam calculating whether I can still reach the gate?

No.

I would rather be near the airport, drink another coffee and have nothing exciting happen.

Sometimes boring is excellent.

There are moments, though, when I do not want to be early.

I once went to a funeral after the mother of a friend had died. Normally my instinct tells me to arrive before everybody else. This time I wanted other people to be there first.

There are situations where I simply do not know what to say. Normally I can always talk, but death is different. My sister is very good with comforting words. She can write long, thoughtful messages.

I cannot.

I can say, “I am very sorry. If you need anything, call me.”

And I mean it.

But I do not want to stand there first, searching for beautiful sentences that do not belong to me.

Maybe timing is sometimes also knowing when not to be first.

Who Gets My Best Time?

At the end of our conversation, the Mayor asked me a simple question.

Who gets the most generous version of Ralf’s clock today?

That answer was easy.

My wife.

After driving around for work and making my visits, I knew I would come home. At about half past three she would arrive from work. Then we would sit down together and drink a very good coffee.

And we would begin the next serious discussion of the day:

What are we going to eat tonight?

For that, I have time.