I wash my hands of the issue…

..or the dirt as it was. But how without a sink, water, soap?

As it is advised I went to check the tyre pressure of my fully loaded loveable green tank before driving those 930 km to Hamburg.

After a lot of pulling that air pressure hose in acrobatic manners around the car to get to all four tires and perpetual unscrewing, dropping, searching and screwing back on of those tiny little plastic caps my hands looked like I dragged them through dirt on purpose. I didn’t really want to drive like that for the next few hours so I asked the lady at the cash register whether they’d have some facilities where I could wash my hands at.

“NO!” She barked, “but stay there!” I did, too afraid to move after that display of authority despite the queue building behind me. She disappeared in the back and it felt like hours with those burning eyes on my back until she came back.

“Here! With soap. This first!” She barked again handing me some paper towels that were wet and clearly soapy.
“Now this one!” Another bark accompanied by handing over some paper towels that were only soaked with water.
“And dry them properly!” The last bark with shoving some dry paper towels into my hands.
“You know you could use those disposable gloves next time.” She then said pointing at the dispenser at the petrol pump suddenly with the sweetest voice and smiling warmly at me.

All I managed to get out was a stammering: “Oh, sure, thanks a lot.” And an embarrassed smile.

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