You roll up, probably hiding that crushed pack of crisps under the seat, feeling a bit sheepish. The inside of your car smells like a mix of last week’s McDonald’s and lost hope. The valeter gives your door a gentle tap, a look that says, “We’ve seen worse, mate.”
They don’t flinch when you hand over the keys and mumble, “The dog got a bit excited last Tuesday.” Believe me, they’ve seen dog excitement, toddler meltdowns, and what looks suspiciously like a science experiment in the cup holder. This is their battlefield, and they are armed with a pressure washer and a very serious attitude.
