Going on a Guilt Trip

Going on a Guilt Trip

There are some activities that are perfectly legal, activities that we are perfectly entitled to engage in but which somehow make us feel somewhat uneasy, guilty in fact…

 

Blackberry picking is one of these activities. If I happen to catch a blackberry picker in the act, especially if the blackberry picking was obviously premeditated (as evidenced by them having a little plastic box), I notice that their sense of shame is almost palpable. Of course they try to brazen it out, they might even cast a little nasty look my way, but I can tell they feel guilty.

 

One of the worst ones for me is the hand car wash.

 

I used to go to the automatic car wash secreted behind the local garage. The gigantic colourful brushes and the jerky guillotine-like dryer made it an utterly terrifying experience; fortunately the noise of that hellish contraption drowned my screams, at least I hope so. I never felt guilty though, never.

 

The hand car wash is another matter altogether.

 

I notice the woman in the car in front of me fiddling with her hair and rubbing the back of her neck – the sort of self-comforting body language that forensic psychologists look out for.

 

An overall-clad young man in wellington boots approaches.

 

I can already sense that he despises my laziness.

 

I wind the window down. “Hi, can I have ‘The Shiner’ please” I ask (I’d rather risk a black eye than a bloke called ‘Fast Eddie’ hopping in the car with me.)

 

He passes me a laminated card and instructs me to put it on the dashboard.

 

He walks smartly to the jet wash area and beckons me over.

 

I drive up to him, as close to his knees as I dare, and turn the engine off.

 

He starts jet washing the front of the car.

 

I try to look relaxed yet distracted, pretending to text someone.

 

“Excuse me.” he says “Could you wind the window up please.”

 

I turn the engine on and the car leaps forward before stalling. I wind the window up, and turn the engine off again, mouthing “Sorry” through the windscreen.

 

He smiles pityingly and continues jet washing before making a grand sweeping gesture with his arm directing me towards the dreaded soapy spongy area.

 

I cautiously manoeuvre into position and two soggy young men smile at me. I attempt a friendly smile in return but suspect that I look as though I’ve just stepped on a slug in my bare feet.

 

Then they start soaping the car. Their chapped and swollen fingers wielding frayed cold sponges. I feel sorry for them and guilty for my part in perpetuating this miserable trade.

 

It comes as a relief when the windscreen is washed and I can sit remorsefully inside foamy isolation.

 

Then a little square of clarity is made and one of the spongy men peers in at me reproachfully before directing me onwards.

 

More jet washing then drying.

 

Four bedraggled men, now five… squeak squeak squeak. I try to ignore them and take an inordinate interest in the advertising boards for garden fencing and mower repairs.

 

Then the door unexpectedly opens and I shriek.

 

“I’m just drying your sills” says the bedraggled youth reassuringly.

 

“Yes, ok” I say (I’ll just sit here like an overstuffed princess while you bend down before me and dry my sills.)

 

Finally it’s time to pay and leave.

 

“I’ll just get your change” he says. “No I don’t want the change, thank you”

 

“I’ll just get you an air freshener then” he says “No I don’t want an air freshener, thank you.”

 

Why doesn’t he just go and leave me alone? I can’t bear this any longer.

 

“Yes?” I ask.

 

“Could you just pass me the card from the dashboard please?”

 

I pass him the little laminated card with overly profuse apologies.

 

I think I might go and seek out some blackberry pickers... just to make myself feel better.