Punctuality is the key to good manners, so why are we always so late?

The new standard of consideration, enabled by the smartphone, is to be as late as you like, as long as you send a text, writes Steve Waterson.

The clock on my phone has a stopwatch that measures hundredths of a second (easily beating the “One Mississippi, two Mississippi” I used to rely on), although there’s nothing in my life that moves quickly enough to need it, least of all me.

The clock itself is even more accurate, tied to satellites and some kind of atomic magic. This phenomenal precision has created a new time paradox (no, not the weirdly popular thought experiment where you go back and kill your grandparents before you’re born).

Instead, the modern conundrum is that as our measurement of time gets more precise, the worse we seem to be at keeping it.

It was once the minimum of politeness to be on time to meet someone; lateness was an implied assertion that your minutes were more valuable than theirs, a disrespectful message delivered by the selfish worldwide, and a particular favourite of jumped-up bosses who relish the power to keep their staff waiting.

The new standard of consideration, enabled by the smartphone, is to be as late as you like, as long as you send a text. “On my way” might be the least helpful; “Leaving now” usually dishonest; “Soz, there in five” a downright lie.

No matter what it says, the message miraculously releases you from your social obligation: you’re no longer late; you’ve just done a bit of unilateral rescheduling.

Your victim sits in the restaurant pretending not to have been stood up, using those quiet moments to reflect on all the other things they despise about the narcissist who’s squandering a chunk of their dwindling lifespan.

My father was as punctual as an Italian train. He always turned up early to airports, finding the stress of rushing a poor start to any journey, and I’ve generally followed his lead, trusting my ability to amuse myself pretty well anywhere (a low entertainment threshold, my children say).

Consequently, only once, many years ago, have I missed a plane. My colleague Rob and I were booked on a flight back to work in Pittsburgh early one Monday morning in March, after a lost weekend in New Orleans. The sensible thing to do on the Sunday – obviously – was to roam around Bourbon Street all night then head straight to the airport.

Somewhere around our fourth Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s bar, 2am instantly and invisibly became 3am; we were by that time oblivious to everything, not least the start of US daylight savings. Much hilarity at the check-in desk.

So a disregard for punctuality doesn’t just annoy others; sometimes it bites the dawdler, too.

In my youth my friends would meet at a particular pub on a Saturday evening to plan the rest of the night’s adventures. Week after week, five of us would be waiting for serial latecomer Ricko. No amount of vile abuse made any difference, so one night we left without him and went to a string of other venues we’d never visited before, leaving him to wander the back streets of Liverpool, cold and friendless. I’d like to say he learned his lesson, but mostly it taught him to find more tolerant companions.

The challenge, if you view punctuality as an essential step towards good manners, is not to lose sight of that ultimate goal, even should you have occasion to rebuke someone for tardiness.

One of those 19th century English aristocrats who gave their names to items of clothing or furniture – Wellington, perhaps, or maybe Lord Chesterfield – once hosted an elegant lunch for a group of close friends.

They all arrived at the appointed hour, except one, who burst in, sweating and red-faced, 45 minutes late. “Pray pardon my lateness, my lord,” he said, explaining that he had been at a carpenter’s workshop buying a table, but the ­negotiations had taken longer than expected.

His lordship smiled and said nothing. It was only a couple of hours later, over port and cigars in the drawing room, that he leant back in his winged armchair and sighed.

“Do you know,” he mused, to no one in particular, “I once knew a chap who bought a table after luncheon.”