The wet.

Today my hand went in wet.

This is the best way to describe it. I was walking downstairs, hand, rightfully on the bannister – when it came into contact with something wet.

This is not what you want.

Fearfully you examine the sensation. It’s not gluey-wet, so hopefully, hopefully it’s not mucus.

What you mustn’t do is inspect the hand.

Inspecting it can confirm your worst fears.

The only, and the utmost, thing to do is to WASH. IT. OFF.

I turn a fear-stricken face to my friend, also on the stairs. ‘I’ve put my hand in something wet’ I hiss.

I may as well have declared that I have smallpox.

Her lips curl back from her teeth and her face falls. ‘Oh.’ She says. ‘Bad do.’

She understands what must be done as I gallivant towards the bathrooms, past reception.

Unfortunately the Head teacher is there, barring the way, complete with an important looking visitor, clad in a power-suit.

I offer them a confident smile, but perhaps this is mistimed, as a child in a pushchair behind them bursts into tears, and Judith-from-reception, whilst eyeing me,  in a low voice asks Helen-from-reception ‘Good God, what’s wrong with her?’

‘Ah, Miss Stark’ begins the Head. She turns toward the visitor, who at this point has stepped forward.

Panic has fully set in now; I’m holding my hand out as if it is independent from my body. My face is set in a manic grin. The Head falters. ‘Are you in a rush to get somewhere?’

Truth. Truth, I feel is the only course of action. Surely they will appreciate the severity of the situation. This is, after all, a school.

‘My hand…has…gotten wet’. I lean forward, and give this admission in a conspiratorial whisper.

I feel the silence that follows is enough to release me, and I charge towards sanitation. I’m fairly sure my hand has dried by this point.