I know exactly how long it takes to dry my hair and apply a passable amount of make-up (eight minutes). I factor in time for public transport fuck-ups, I always have a back-up plan if everything does go really wrong, and I’m just a pretty fast person. Even on the (very) rare occasion that I need to text someone a brief novel explaining why I’m running late and that “I’m SO incredibly sorry” and “Oh my god I feel awful”, I’ll probably still arrive before them.

In fact, my children now laugh in my face when I tell them we’re late for school – which I do every morning – because they’re the only kids in their class who have 100% punctuality on their reports.

If all of this makes me sound like the last person on earth you’d want to arrange dinner with, there’s a caveat: I don’t hate people who are late. I just don’t understand them. I do not understand how roughly 30 years of experience doesn’t teach you how long it takes to get dressed, or how of course you have time to ‘pop in to Arket’ three minutes before your train is due to leave, or how you don’t feel wracked with anxiety at the thought of leaving someone sitting in a restaurant waiting 40 minutes for you. But the fact is, I don’t mind waiting for you. I quite like the quiet time. And for that you can thank my mum, who always kept me waiting – but who I’ll happily wait all day for.

The great late debate: are you an early person or always late?