This handrail, while not stunning like the one at the Connaught in London, serves a purpose. It is meant to keep you from being killed. Scenario. And I am not speaking from experience. I swear on a stack of organic hand wipes. You stumble out of a pub or a sale at Selfridges and you feel disoriented. Instead of walking into a bus on Oxford Street, you walk into this handrail. So while it is likely germ-laden, I salute this metal masterpiece.Hit.
Three verifiable things about me. One. I am an only child. The concept of sharing, therefore, is foreign to me. Two. I am a Virgo. The sign regarded as a perfectionist. Three. My mother raised me to be meticulously clean; compulsively tidy. According to my mother, "You have taken this clean thing way too far." I disagree. Apologies to my mother.
Nature or nurture? Who knows? Who cares? I have not been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Nor would I label myself a Cleanaholic. Or a Germaphobe. My world though, is definitely a unique place. One where doors open magically. Hotel mattresses are pristine. And estheticians never double dip.
I live in this world without a bubble or a honeycomb mask. About 15 years ago I got tired of catching the flu du jour and became ever more so hygienically vigilant -- perhaps obsessively so.
While in London, I watched someone sneeze on one of these hand rails and walk away. Yummy.
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