I’m not particularly sure why I keep the umbrella in my bag still. It’s not going to rain and there’s always a cab but I feel I don’t want to be surprised by the consequences of a sudden rainfall. When I was a girl I would love to walk out of an afternoon, get the resolute drenching I deserved and then trudge home and be fussed over. I suppose my worry is that now I would be judged rather than fussed over. Actually am I more concerned with being fussed over? Not very comfortable with that.

The umbrella is a midnight blue affair with a series of parading scotty dogs over the arc of the thing. Not terribly sure where this scotty dog thing started. I remember being given a broach when I was young by Aunt Clara. Not sure I had much of a choice about wearing the dratted thing after that. The rule seemed to be that on each subsequent visit of any significant dignitary one should be wearing or holding as much of the previously proffered clobber as one could reasonably manage and remain standing.

I think it was mainly that the broach was easy to pop on top of anything and therefore stood me in good staid incase of unexpected Aunt based activity. This, I think, broadcast to everyone that I had a particular affinity for the blasted scotty dogs when, in fact, I was trying to show an affinity for father’s sister.

So why now this umbrella? I have mainly put away such childish pooches but I saw this new invention, a handbag sized brolly, with dogs upon it and it seemed designed for an echo of me. But shoot me if I ever buy an actual dog.


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