There aren’t many things in this world about which I’m confident in my abilities. But, for all my many (many) flaws as a human being, I’ve always considered myself an excellent hand washer.
Really next level. Maybe even world class.
You know the ‘sing happy birthday twice’ thing? Been doing it for years. Years. I can’t tell you how many public restrooms I’ve been thrown out of.
Soap? I’m a master spritzer – getting a bubbly lather to expel all the bacterial ne’er-do-wells that linger on my digits.
(Also, can we just take a second to think about how weird it is that the word ‘digital’ – the basis for damn near all technology – basically means ‘fingery’?)
Showing off the skills
I’ve had daydreams about bumping into a film crew for something like The One Show, asking people to demonstrate their hand-washing abilities. They’ll have some expert loitering in the background, ready to pounce and say “ah, not long enough” “you forgot under your wedding ring” or even “bit sparing with the soap, aren’t we?”
But not to me.
As I demonstrated my prowess, they’d stand dumbfounded. Slack-jawed. The cameraman would turn and say “Sweet sanitisation, Frank. Are you seeing this guy?” and there’d be nothing they could teach me. Nothing.
Word of my exploits would no doubt spread, but I wouldn’t want the fame. The glory. The hordes of eager fans waiting to greet me.
No, that’s not the life for me. For one simple reason.
They’d all want to shake hands.
Craig's Ivory Soapbox 