Hand Washing

 

By Shelley Miller

I often wondered if I might be a little too keen on handwashing... my husband would say I am. Since the untimely visit to our shores ( right on top of Brexit) of Coronavirus, my hand washing has hit a new all time high.

The Morrisons shop assistant meets me in the carpark now before I've even put the hand brake on to present me with my weekly fix of simple soap and Zaflora.

It's fair to say that my husband has become long-suffering since C19. When he arrives home from work I greet him at the front door not with a welcoming kiss but orders to "DROP EVERYTHING!!!" and "STAY RIGHT THERE!!!" Lest he contaminates our home. I'm nothing if not polite and good-humoured about it so I'm rewarded with compliance. He wasn't smiling the other day when I insisted he scrubs his hands with a bit more TCP, especially around the cuticles. "Are you about to lose your patience?" I asked him apologetically. He fixed me with his 'for Goodness sake' look, but his lips were too tightly pursed for words to escape. "I'll listen to a lecture about the perils of going over board" I went on,” but not before you've washed your hands!"

After all the faffing about we sit in the front room to have dinner with another episode of Corona Virus aka BBC news.
I love the predictability of routine, there's something very reassuring about it.

Copyright SCMiller. 

 

I post this anecdote with my most humble apologies to Shelley!  It’s been sitting in my Archived box since 16^th April 2020; I have no idea how it got there.  But it’s still relevant today (two years later).  

Len