Hurry, but do not rush

A family in Abu Dhabi is moving flats, and the removal crew has one day to empty one home and fill another before the building closes its service lift at night.

Two of the men work very differently. Watch them for an hour and the difference is plain.

The first is rushing. He stacks boxes before they are taped, wraps the glasses in a single sheet, carries the mirror without checking the corridor. Rushing comes with its excuse already attached: the lift closes at nine, what do you expect. It gives him permission to skip the parts that make the job worth paying for.

The second is hurrying. He moves just as fast, perhaps faster, but nothing is skipped. Each box is sealed and labelled. He seems to understand that this one day matters more to the family than almost any other day of their year, and he does not want to waste a minute of it, or break a single thing they will unpack tonight.

The two words sound as if they mean the same thing. They do not.

Rushing treats the moment as a burden to get through. Hurrying treats it as a chance that will not come again, and moves quickly because the chance is precious.

The family will not remember how long the day took. They will remember what arrived in one piece.