Is there anything more fearsome than a Londoner with an umbrella?
In a September shower, hustling in rush hour
hypnotically spinning like an airplane propeller,
seeking decapitation, making me cower
like a peasant in the face of a charging knight
a waterproof lance heading straight for the face –
the pointy bits of a brolly are always just the right height.
So I duck and dodge at a frantic pace
like a cockney ninja hidden under my hood.
Then out of nowhere comes the leader of their gang,
A Mary Poppins type looking wholesome and good,
I think I’ll evade her – at the last second, bang!
I’m gouged in the cheek with a stainless steel spike,
blood flows freely and she doesn’t even slow.
Then I’m soaked with a puddle by a speeding superbike,
Steam rises from me as my ire starts to grow.
I stomp off in a strop with my hand to my cheek,
duck my head into a shop where it’s warm and dry,
check the weather forecast for the rest of the week
and buy a brolly of my own to poke in someone else’s eye.