Shake on it?

Human beings are supposed to be the most socially sophisticated creatures on the planet.

However, every once in a while, somebody will turn around and ask you a question that even a gorilla wouldn’t grunt.

By their mid-teens, I reckon that most people have a fairly firm grasp on the dos and don’ts of social interaction.

Now, I am not contending that all adolescents are like James Bond at the cocktail bar, but, generally speaking, by the time we hit 14, most of us have learned to aim low when guessing a person’s age, to never presume a woman is pregnant, and, even when cooked the most minging meal imaginable by your friend’s mother, that the only inoffensive course of action available is to smile, say thank you, and clean the plate.

“Mmmmm, thank you very much, Theresa, I will be telling my ma all about that – but I can guarantee she won’t be ringing looking a lend of your cookbook!”

Anyway, back to the point.

The other day, somebody asked me an unexpected question, and, ever since, I have been trying to figure out whether or not it landed below the social belt-line. The question arose during the placing of a bet. One of those bets that require a ratifying handshake.

The nature of the wager is now immaterial to the story, given that the pact was never actually formalised.

I will report the incident from the point at which, after appearing to be on course to meeting my hand for the deal-sealing shake, my adversary pulled their paw away at speed.

“Hold on… How often do you wash your hands?”, they asked, their face rinsed with relief, as if they had woken up in just enough time to untie themselves from the train tracks.

“Wise up and shake on it, would ye?” I said.

“No chance,” they doubled down, the thumb of their rapidly withdrawn hand now hovering next to their ear, looking all too poised to slap me across the face should I dare attempt to instigate another shake.

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

Suddenly, however, just as I was about to give my honest answer, my tongue was twisted by a bolt of fear.

“How often do YOU wash your hands?” I asked, hoping their response would give me the information I needed to decide whether it was going to be necessary to lie or not.

“Nope,” they countered, refusing to accept my question as an answer.

I looked towards my hand.

I tried to remember the last time it had been washed.

There were no obvious signs of dirt, germs, or any other substance you would not want to find on a hand you were about to shake.

“That hand was washed the last time I went to the toilet,” I said confidently.

“What do you do when you sneeze?”

I mimed a man experiencing the overtures of a sneeze. Rising chin, fluttering eyelids, twitchy nose.

“You sneeze into your hands and then you don’t wash them,” they said, with glaringly malicious intent.

My eyes narrowed and the nuts and bolts of our bet spilled onto the floor between us.

“What do you do with your sneezes?” I asked.

“I hold them in until I get a tissue, or, if my head is about to explode, I sneeze into the crook of my elbow.”

“I bet I wash my hands more than you wash the crooks of your elbows.”

And, with that retort – which was as churlish as it was childish – victory was mine.

Anyway, serves them right for asking such a rude question.

I have shaken too many hands literally covered in unidentified blacky-brown stuff to sit back and have somebody question the hygiene of my mitt before a shake.