Andy Richardson: I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date

We were to see him at his place of work, off Whitehall, so that we could gain a better understanding of how he spent his time.

During the course of an efficiently-used time slot, agreed weeks in advance, we would watch the wheels of Government turn.

The staff at Aslef, however, have little time for tête-à-têtes between regional journalists and Government ministers.

And so, like a sniper picking off a slow-moving enemy, they decided to close the London Underground on the day of our meeting.

The Minister's team suggested an alternative time and date. But, true soldiers that we are, we told them not to worry. Nothing, not a pesky Underground strike, not London's worst congestion for 13 years, not a city of 10 million people all trying to get to the same place at the same time could stop us. I set off at silly o'clock in the morning, giving myself a two-hour contingency to cope with the inevitable delays.

If there's one thing I hate, it's being late. Being late confers disrespect. It says 'I've got better things to do and you're lucky I'm here at all, Jimmy'. It says 'I've got other options'. In short, being late means not giving a damn. And I do.

So I avoid it, at all costs.

I once phoned a chef at a Michelin starred restaurant in Birmingham. I was melting down like a reactor at Fukushima. "I'm going to be late, sorry."

"No worries, fella," he said. "What's your ETA?"

"11.01."

"But you're due here at 11."

"I know. Sorry. I'm a minute late."

And I was. I know how ridiculous it was of me to phone him and say. And I know that he thought I was an eejit for phoning. But not to do so would have been a slight.

My car ground to a halt soon after exiting the M1, at Kilburn. I'd still got two hours spare. It only takes two hours to travel from Kilburn, in Derby, to London, on a good day, so I was going to be fine. Except, the day of a Tube strike is not a good day. On the contrary, it's a very bad day if you're stuck in a Renault Clio and trying to drive the 5.6 miles across town, along the busiest roads linking north London to Westminster.

It's a bad day when every Tube station that you pass is bolted shut. It's a bad day when the taxis are in just the same boat as you. And it's a bad day when you realise you can't park up and walk, even though that would be quicker, because your equipment is too heavy to carry.

My heart began to beat a little faster, as though I'd realised I'd got the numbers right on the Lottery but forgotten to buy the ticket. A sense of unease rose. It was replaced by dread. My satnav counted down the minutes like a stopwatch on a ticking bomb.

'Keep calm and carry on', I told myself. And carry on I did. But at a snail's pace. My car inched forwards. Three cars made it across the traffic lights, then we'd stop. Then another three cars would go, then we'd stop.

As I reached Buckingham Palace, I had 20 minutes in which to park and make my appointment. I'd be fine, the roads were clearing. And then the biggest crowd since VE gathered.

And at the side of St James's Park, I realised my efforts had been in vain. The two hours had been eaten, like carrion in the bush. My humiliation was complete. I made the phone call to apologise. I was going to be late.

The Minister was magnanimity itself. "He says that's fine," said his staff, as though he hadn't got better things to do, like securing world peace. "Just get here when you can."

And so on I ploughed. I was 800 metres away from his office, but stuck fast. It would take another 40 minutes to park and walk to the door. My equilibrium was shot like a target on a shooting range.

I made it to the Ministry 20 minutes behind schedule. And as I passed the phalanx of armed police, I was grateful for the air conditioning that helped to cool an over-heated hack.

The Minister greeted me with a firm handshake. "I'm so sorry," he said, as though my lateness was somehow his fault.

"We should have rescheduled."

He taught me nothing I didn't know about Government. But he taught me more than I could have imagined about composure and class.