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.
