What was that Paul Young song in the 80’s? Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you? It’s inevitable, really. There can’t help but be transfer of trace elements- There’d be no CSI series without that fact. Fibres, dust, tiny particles of skin and hair, and, of course, sweat.
You may call it perspiration, in the spirit of my mother, who used to say that a ‘lady doesn’t sweat, she glows’. Well, I, for one, glow like a pig. The biggest fear for me in interviews is not what I will or won’t say, but will my hands be clammy? The more I try to will myself not to, the more anxious I get, and the more I sweat.
So, you interview me, you’d better want a piece of me, because you are going to get one (or some fluid ounces, anyway).
Imagine how much sweat is left in places like examination rooms, dentist’s waiting rooms, on the arms of one-armed-bandits in casinos, inside motorbike helmets, on tools and handles of every description, and on the small of a dance-partner’s back. On a tight-rope walker’s wire, in a ballerina’s shoes, on steering wheels, in hospital beds, in jail cells and on witness stands. In stadium change-rooms, in restaurant kitchens, on keyboards and the computer mouse, on bunches of keys, on new girlfriend or boyfriend’s hands, on cinema seat armrests, on banisters and elevator buttons.
It’s a wonder we aren’t all drowning in the stuff.
Anyone else want to go and wash their hands? Just watch out for that tap.
You may call it perspiration, in the spirit of my mother, who used to say that a ‘lady doesn’t sweat, she glows’. Well, I, for one, glow like a pig. The biggest fear for me in interviews is not what I will or won’t say, but will my hands be clammy? The more I try to will myself not to, the more anxious I get, and the more I sweat.
So, you interview me, you’d better want a piece of me, because you are going to get one (or some fluid ounces, anyway).
Imagine how much sweat is left in places like examination rooms, dentist’s waiting rooms, on the arms of one-armed-bandits in casinos, inside motorbike helmets, on tools and handles of every description, and on the small of a dance-partner’s back. On a tight-rope walker’s wire, in a ballerina’s shoes, on steering wheels, in hospital beds, in jail cells and on witness stands. In stadium change-rooms, in restaurant kitchens, on keyboards and the computer mouse, on bunches of keys, on new girlfriend or boyfriend’s hands, on cinema seat armrests, on banisters and elevator buttons.
It’s a wonder we aren’t all drowning in the stuff.
Anyone else want to go and wash their hands? Just watch out for that tap.
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