I am the current incarnation of the-timer’s-about-to-go-off man: every time there’s a timer I’m physically uncomfortable in the seconds right before the notification beeps begin. “It should be done by now” I’ll say, just before the oven timer sounds, or the dryer plays its jingle.

Yesterday I took the dog for a walk around another store while my wife did the grocery shop, but I forgot my phone at home. Sure enough, I got the familiar itch between the shoulder blades and the dread “she’s probably done by now” and had to excuse the pup and I from the group of people giving him scritches. We all reached the car at the same time.