I stood glaring at the kettle, my gaze locked fiercely on the obstinate appliance. It squatted smugly on the counter, offering nothing but an insipid rumble as proof of its supposed intent. I’d been promised tea by this sleek and duplicitous device exactly three minutes earlier, yet here I remained, stubbornly fixated, veins pulsating with barely concealed irritation.

They say a watched kettle never boils, but that’s just the gateway proverb to life’s more profound truth: I’m utterly incapable of waiting. Whether it’s tea or trains, or the conclusion of a particularly tedious neighbour’s anecdote, I am perpetually teetering on the brink of impatience-induced madness. Standing still is agony; inactivity, torture.

My condition manifests spectacularly in queues. Within seconds, I start suspecting conspiracies—deliberate delay strategies hatched by supermarket cashiers. Traffic lights provoke in me a murderous rage; a pedestrian dawdling across the crossing turns into my sworn nemesis.

I once attempted mindfulness to remedy this affliction. It lasted exactly 47 seconds before I hurled the instructional CD from a fourth-storey window, narrowly missing an unsuspecting postman.

Back at the kettle, a feeble puff of steam finally emerged. Vindication at last! But my victory felt hollow. I poured the tea, already agitated, scalding myself immediately. Patience may indeed be a virtue, but clearly, it’s one I’m fated never to possess.

After all, a watched kettle may eventually boil, but life waits for no man—especially not this one.