Forget the Dyson vacuum I got after / for Christmas (okay, don’t forget that, because it’s the most beautiful thing that sucks ever. Seriously. Ever.)
This hand-dryer, however, was discovered recently in a downtown restaurant. I thought my friend was sending me into the bathroom to witness some particularly scandalous notes on the stalls, a tasteless nude painting, a replaying condom commercial or perhaps a too-skinny patron who had imbibed her weight in adult beverages and was now trying to apply lipstick to her forehead.
It was better than any of those: a Dyson hand dryer. That actually dries hands. Without trying to blast the skin off your bones. It made me rather giddy. Okay, the ridiculously girly martini may have had something to do with that too but, really, if it were all martini, I wouldn’t have been able to take a proper photo for you. Nor wax poetic about the merits of a good hand dryer with my fellow health care worker before returning to the previous circuitous discussions of music, men & musicians.
There. If you ever thought that I was difficult to amuse, this should put you off that notion.