The greatest British tradition.
We spent a day queuing, and paid for the privillage.
And it was a privillage, standing in line with other ordinary people in expectation of what was to come.
But the people around were not just ordinary, they were co-travellers, we had a common identity. (A common distain for queue jumping as well!)
But the common purpose in our queuing made for a convivial time, not a mad rush at a check-out wishing to be at the front, although the front was the common goal.
Just waiting.
Just waiting.
Before going we had thought about the queuing, what to do, how not to get bored, but once involved, there was no real sense of waste of time. The art of waiting had come to us. The goal of our queuing was of course worth the wait.
I hope that I can now use that waiting and apply it to my reading. I have become so impatient with reading, I can’t read that fast, and want to be done reading, want to get to the good bit. Letting the whole of the process be good is the key to it. The waiting and the getting, or the reading and the realisation.
Just waiting…
