DEAR HAND DRYER AT THE NGV: I HATE YOU.

Yesterday I was criticised by a hand dryer. I’ve suffered a kaleidoscopic cocktail of various kinds abuse and criticism over the years from a malicious milieu of teachers, critics, random strangers and the occasional soon to be ex lover. Attracting reprimand from an inanimate bathroom appliance however, is something new even for me.

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Whilst drying my hands at the National Gallery of Victoria the normally silent utilitarian device proceeded to lecture me through the use of a digital screen and speakers on how I should be more conservative with my water use.

I am entirely in favour of people receiving advice on methods of how to be more environmentally conscious, being quite the tree hugger myself, I just think that I would prefer that advice to be dispensed by something with a pulse. If I wanted advice from a soulless object masquerading as a human being I would watch Dr. Phil.

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