The ducks were booked on Tuesday

A family in Fayoum is welcoming a son home after two years working away. Everyone knows the date. Everyone knows the lunch will be roast stuffed duck from the man near the canal who does them better than anyone, because that is what the son asked for on the phone.

The mother rings to order on the Thursday before. The ducks are gone. Half the town had the same idea, and the ones who rang on Tuesday got them.

It would be easy to say she should always order early, but that is not quite right either. The same woman sensibly waits until the morning to decide whether to take a jacket, and until the week before to choose what to wear. Weather changes. Moods change. Deciding those early would mean deciding twice.

The last minute is a perfectly good strategy for some things. When an event is far away, may not happen at all, costs little to sort out if it does, and gains nothing from being planned, waiting is free. Often it is wiser.

The ducks were the opposite case. The date was fixed. The number of guests was known. The dish was decided weeks ago by the person it was for. And every day of waiting made the same thing harder to get and, in the end, impossible.

The trouble is that last-minute living becomes a habit. Once every week is a scramble, there is never a calm hour to sort the things that could have been settled early from the things that should be left.

It does not take long to tell them apart. If even that short sum is not worth doing, then waiting was never the clever choice.