No! Daddy! No!” The squeal could break glass.
Heads turn. What kind of child abuse is being committed in these lavatories?
I only suggested to my dear daughter that I pick her up so that she could dry her hands in the machine. I can feel unspoken tutting and a “for God’s sake get that brat out of here” mood wafting towards me.
I didn’t want to be here, but you have to take swift action when “I have to pee!” is shouted at you, and her mother is having retail therapy somewhere in the depths of T K Maxx.
“It’s just a hand drier, sweetheart. Look at Daddy. I just put my hands in the opening at the top…air is blown on to my hands…and I take them out. Dry. Well, dry-ish.”
She looks up at me, horrified.
“Mummy told me not to put my hands in things! My fingers might get trapped and cut off!”
“Well, not always—”
“It’s a monster! It roared when you put your hands in and there’s a farty smell in here. It eats people!”
I can’t help thinking that she’s now trying to wind me up, in that not very sweet way that children sometimes push their luck with their parents in public places. My little princess. She’s quite imaginative.
“Now, Ellie. That’s a bit silly. Why don’t you just try it?”
“No! Daddy! No!”
“OK. Dry your hands on your T-shirt.”
She pouts. I just take one of her wet hands and lead her outside.
Just as the door closes, an almighty howl blows past us on fetid hot air. I quiver with panic, but Ellie doesn’t. She has the most indignant “I told you so!” look on her face that I have ever seen.
Placed in the May 2026 300-word Flash Fiction competition at Self-Pub Fest.
