Timekeeping is not one of my strong points. I’m a hoor for leaving things to the last minute and over the years ’tis getting worse. Thankfully, the Mother is the opposite and while my disastrous punctuality can lead to ferocious rows at the house, the fact that she’s my driver keeps me on the right side of punctuality for most functions.

As a councillor, and a serial meeting attender, I come across people with all kinds of timekeeping habits.

I’m reminded of Jacky Conroy, a councillor from the Rinnagoppel electoral area, who doubled as an undertaker.

Jacky, who was never on time for anything, became known as ‘the late Jacky Conroy’.

He was, in fact, late for his own funeral. After being waked at home, the removal stalled when his hearse, a big American jalopy with an automatic gearbox, broke down halfway out his boreen and couldn’t be moved either backward or forward.

They had to lift Jacky’s coffin out the back door, over the ditch and into the field and then shoulder it to a gap near the road where Liam Kelly’s bread van was commandeered to take him to the church.

Poor auld Liam Kelly had to get a new van soon afterwards, as the locals refused to buy his bread – they couldn’t erase the memory of Jacky stretched out between the sliced pans and the batch loaves.

I have no hesitation in admitting that my timekeeping, or lack of it, is down to poor organisation and my addiction to the long finger. I never have time on my hands, because there is always something to be done today that I should have done yesterday.

I regularly arrive late for functions, apologising to everyone and making up excuses on the hoof: “I was ready to come out the door a half an hour ago, but I couldn’t find my keys,” or “the mobile rang just as I was gettin’ up to leave.”

I’ll embellish these with tales of slow drivers, roadworks and traffic lights, all of which conspired to ensure I’d be late. The truth of the matter is, if I had organised myself to leave on time, I’d have turned up on time.

Many of the good timekeepers I know are most admirable people who run their lives like clockwork and can be depended upon to turn up on the dot of punctuality. They won’t be found struggling through the door, tying their laces with one hand and knotting the tie with the other. They’ll be waiting outside well before the appointed time, dressed like clerks and looking at their watches.

Praiseworthy and all as these people are, dig a bit deeper and you’ll find that many of them have feck all to do and all day to do it.

In the farming community, these types are often referred to as ‘gentleman farmers’. You know the kind; tweeds, tan shoes and a hat perched on the Ballingarry side of the head.

On the day of a funeral, will you find the gentleman farmer dosing cattle or dehorning calves up to the last minute? Will he arrive at the church looking as flustered as if he’s been dehorned himself? On the contrary, he won’t put his head outside the door of his elegant farmhouse until he’s in good time to go to church.

He’ll get up, wash, shave and enjoy a hearty breakfast, sitting like Lord Muck at the head of the table, clad in a vest and trousers, with the braces hanging down.

Watered and fed, he completes his ablutions with all the serenity of a cob swan. Glancing in the mirror, he’ll straighten the coat on his shoulders, tighten his tie and don his hat, as he prepares to meet the great unwashed.

Meanwhile, the missus bustles around cleaning up after him and plastering on dollops of make-up to take the heat of the cooker off her face. The good timekeeper will be at the church before parson, priest or preacher.

On the other side of the coin, among the ranks of poor timekeepers, are found hordes of frantic misfortunes who try to please everyone and rarely say no.

These characters take on far too much and even if the man who made time was to make twice as much more, it still wouldn’t be enough for them.

They arrive late for one meeting because they’re coming late from another, for which they were also late, and they’re watching the clock because they have yet another meeting to attend after this one. But they’ll stay for the tea in case they miss anything. As they leave with bits of paper sticking out of every pocket and the remnants of a cream bun dripping down either side of their mouth, they’re rehearsing excuses for why they’re going to be late for the next meeting. It takes all kinds. CL