While queuing for my coffee yesterday at Kiama Village, I glanced across and noticed an equally long line at the sushi bar. It got me thinking about how much of our lives we spend waiting — for all sorts of things.

These days, we’ve mastered the art of passing the time. We scroll aimlessly on our phones, enduring the wait until we finally reach the front of the queue and receive the service we came for.

Waiting has never been my strong suit. In fact, I’m terrible at it. Even now, though I’m working on it, I freely admit my patience is limited.

As a child, I was a master of the “Are we there yet?” syndrome. My teenage years brought their own trials — waiting for exam results, waiting for boyfriends to call, waiting for just about anything was pure torture.

Job interviews were no better. In the days before mobile phones, waiting meant one long, nervous vigil for the landline to ring or the mail to arrive.

A short corporate career, followed by years as a small business owner, brought unexpected relief. My restlessness became an advantage: if something needed doing, I did it immediately. 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 good laugh at my expense: “Just hurry up and get born, baby!”

Strangely, the child-rearing years were calmer. With so much to do, there was no time for impatience. By then I’d discovered jogging and the gym, and how exercise could calm my soul.

Now, a little older, my affliction is easing. I don’t shop online, click and collect, or wait for home deliveries. If I need something, I go out and buy it. I rarely play the waiting game — and it’s bliss.

That was until last week, when the universe decided to pay me back. The culprit? A timber delivery for home renovations.

I’d organised a carpenter to start once the timber arrived, so it wasn’t just me waiting — it was him too. On delivery day, I was up at 6am: showered, dressed, breakfasted … waiting.

There was a delivery window, but as the hours passed, my agitation grew. By early afternoon, the carpenter had to leave for another job. Naturally, the delivery arrived moments later — and the timber was the wrong size.

The moral of the story?

The replacement timber arrived the next day at 9.30am. The waiting wasn’t nearly as bad this time. I let my husband handle it — while I slept in.