I have spent an inordinate amount of my waking time waiting. For me, waiting is immaterial, quite literally; it’s a state of not-being, a temporary limbo. The location is irrelevant. Waiting at home is only slightly less tedious, and often more infuriating, than waiting at an impersonal office. Waiting in a personal office may not be that infuriating, because I could look at certificates and posters and photos and pretend that that was me, say, in front of that wonderfully back lit and Jamaican sunrise and next to that middle-aged and homely woman. But then, on second thought, I didn’t want his life. I wanted my own. I would like very much to have my own vacation destination and family beside me, just with his pay, office and benefits. Well, maybe slightly better.
Waiting in an industrial office or waiting room is wretched. It is purgatory spent with a grandfather’s clock that always ticks, but never tocks.
And it’ll be glorious.