Sitting opposite me in an elegant restaurant, my male friend looked deep into my eyes and said three little words. And with those three little words, he changed my world for ever.
‘You need Swarfega.’
‘Swuh…swuh…’ I said, feeling a lump forming in my throat and my whole identity crumbling.
‘Swarfega. You know, the heavy-duty hand-cleaner in the red and green tubs. You can buy it on the internet.’
I looked down at my hands. But they weren’t there. Someone had put the hands of Albert Steptoe on the ends of my arms instead. ‘Oh my god! Where have my hands gone?’ I gasped.
The waitress came and topped up my water glass but she needn’t have bothered. I stuffed my grimy, weather-beaten, puffy, wrinkled hands under the table, never to emerge again.
How did this happen? When did I become so indelibly ingrained with dirt and muck that I could no longer get it off in a normal Jo Malone lime, basil and mandarin scented bath? When did I start needing industrial grease remover for garage mechanics and farm workers? In truth, I know exactly when.
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