for the love of words

by Rob Auton

Every now and again, I put my hands under the hand dryer, and I’m compelled to stay there.

“Ah okay, this is one of those occasions then! I’ve been wondering when one of these will come along again. I’m gonna treat myself. I’m gonna go all the way baby. Yes, it will take time, but I am going to dry my hands, until, they are dry.”

Afterwards, my hands are warm, and sometimes, my hands feel even dryer than they were before I wet them. My hands are dry hands, and I feel like I’ve accomplished something. I put the time in, and it’s paid off. Staggering, what you can achieve when you put your mind to it.

Dry your hands properly. Pass your driving test.

I walk out of the toilet, knowing what perseverance can result in. 

I seem to take part in this hand drying ritual the exact same amount of times a year that I thoroughly pick all the white webs off a satsuma before eating it, until it is completely clear from the tasteless pollution.

Drying my hands until they are free from all wet, and picking at a satsuma until free from all white, are related. Distant cousins somehow.