Ella was running late

Ella was running late. When was she ever running early? Not to put too fine an analytical spin on life with Ella, suffice it to say she had programmed her life in such a way that trains would always be just leaving the station. In a fit of pique she'd look at her watch and, madly cornered, like a snared ferret, look sharply and rapidly at the station clock—she couldn't accept the rock-solid validity of The Station Clock, that institution of Time itself, without which New York, Chicago and San Francisco would each be a gargantuan, metropolitan version of Ella... Was that it? She refused convention when and where her own internal world was concerned. Was that it? Isn't it a marvel how one human being can progress day to day, Mitty-like, convinced of nothing other than their own credo, bill of rights and United Nations charter. The fact is, Ella was a nation unto herself and despite her disarming smile and whimsical generosity, she quite easily torpedoed innocent passersby with little more than a look, a glance. For all her innocence she was indeed a wounded animal and she would destroy you for a penny. Never for your thoughts.