We all often recall the highs, lows and regrets of life. The highs of summers playing football in the park as children, the lows of when your dog was run over, and the regrets of not looking properly when reversing out the driveway.
One major part of life that you never consider during these late-night bouts of insomnia are the hours spent in a queue. No one remembers the endless minutes outside a dodgy nightclub or the line through passport control on your budget holiday to Rhodes. These brief hellish moments are consigned to the dustbin of history as soon as you get to the front of a line.
Yet the fact remains that Britain loves to queue. If it were an Olympic sport we would be taking home the gold, having patiently waited in line at the podium.
It is a silent honourable skill of a Briton to form a line. Wherever it is needed. If someone cuts in, yes we mutter whilst staring intently at their backs, but we pity such uncivilised beasts. Citizens of the United Kingdom would rather play by the rules of the queue than get the last pint of milk. The honour is in the queuing, not the winning my friends.
Writes Tom Greaney
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