The Chronicles of Barnia

Greetings

As I round the corner, he bursts through the door like a king returning from a triumphant battle. This kind of confidence on exiting the men's toilets gives me chest pains. My survival instincts kick in but, as I turn to flee, his regal eyes trap me.

'Barney, I haven't seen you in ages!' He says this with such obvious delight that I wonder if he's mistaken me for somebody else. He walks towards me. My ribcage tightens. He extends his hand. My spirit quails.

The handshake is, as a general rule, a territory so riddled with complexity and potential pitfalls that it should be outlawed. Or, at the very least, branded socially unacceptable. The handshake on exiting the men's toilets is another story all together. That should be rewarded with one of those one-way tickets to Mars that ends with you fighting it out with Arnie and Sharon Stone to see who gets the last of the oxygen.

But this isn't Arnie. It's Ashby; a workmate. A colleague. A refusal to shake his hand would, at best, be considered awkward. At worst, I could have my corporate social club membership revoked. So I reach out.

And my nightmare becomes reality.

Ashby's hand is dry. Too dry. Nobody's hand is that dry if it's only just been washed according to World Health Organisation standards. And he can't plead ignorance. I should know - after a long and protracted struggle with Building Services, I managed to secure instructional posters in the toilets on every floor. But the WHO propaganda has failed me!

'How have you been, mate?' Ashby asks. He's a big man and his oversized hand closes around mine like a bear greeting a raccoon. I actually feel the germ transfer and the subsequent riotous behaviour of the microscopic diseases on my meticulously maintained skin.

'Good mate,' is all I can manage. Our hands disengage and I'm careful not to let mine touch any other part of me; clothed or not. I have to get this baby back to my desk, stat.

'You got lunch plans?' Ashby asks.

How would I know? I'm in a desperate bid for survival here - I can't be thinking about lunch!

'Dunno. Need to check calendar.' The germs have reached the speech cortex of my brain.

Ashby follows me back to my desk, which is partly a relief because I'm almost on safe ground, but partly catastrophic because his presence will compromise my sterilisation plan. I can't use my keyboard with my contaminated hand, because it would contaminate my keyboard, but I can't let him see me enact my plan either. I don't want him to think I'm some kind of freak.

So I employ a devastatingly foolproof tactic. 'Ashby, can you do me a favour, mate, and grab me a pen from the stationery cupboard?' He looks like he might challenge the request, given that he isn't my serf, but then shrugs his shoulders instead and trundles off.

I seize the day and pump a very healthy dose of hand sanitiser into my palm. I rub my hands together like I'm trying to start a fire and, as the sweet, heavenly liquid dries on my skin, so the pain in my chest subsides.

I'm safe.

Ashby returns. 'Here, mate,' he says, throwing the pen onto my desk. Then, in a I've just been had tone of voice: 'You've already got three pens, here. What kind of stitch up is this?!'

My devastatingly foolproof tactic doesn't extend to defensive manoeuvres so I have to think on the fly. 'Practical joke?'

'Practical joke!' Ashby laughs. 'You're a classic, Conroy.' He ruffles my hair in an appropriately masculine and comradely gesture.

My chest hurts.