Brolly Wars: It’s umbrellas at 20 paces

ON Friday it rained in the city.
It’s like a cock-fight down on the terrace in winter, you know.
The minute the rain comes down, umbrellas go up. And umbrellas, essentially, are the pedestrian equivalent of the car: They’re a chance to display how much of a man you are, whilst remaining fully clothed and vertical.
The competition is fierce. They come in all shapes and sizes, but any colour other than black and you’re out of the game. The more spokes the better. Mine has 16 and they’re titanium-tipped.
On my walk home a man with a six-spoker eyed me with envy and another, armed with a purple womans’ model hanged his head to avoid eye contact. I am the man.
I skillfully negotiated five bottlenecks caused by bus shelters – the key to success being extending your arm to the heavens so you can get canopy height and thereby pass with ease. A real man doesn’t queue to get by a bus stop.
At one shelter I noticed breaths held as one woman’s umbrella blew inside out. She struggled with it and forced it to fold back. Snap. A broken spoke. I looked at her with the compassion reserved for a one-legged seagull - as if she sought pity for her broken limb.
Instead of throwing her a chip, the man beside her reopened his umbrella, just to shake off excess some water. I thought, ‘I like your style’.
I noticed how the water fairly beaded off my own magnificent model, and drew comfort from the superiority of my brolly - my mahogany shaft being the most marvelous in view at the time.
Then, disaster. A suited fop with a spectacular seven-foot span came marching up the terrace towards me. How could I compete with a canvas force-field large enough to protect a good Catholic family in a blizzard? Worse still, we were going to pass at a bus stop, and he wasn’t budging for anyone.
I went for height. So did he. I went higher. Victory was mine for the taking!
Bang. My ferule hit the bus shelter as he strutted on passed. He knew the game.
I straightened myself and turned to look back at him.
He was looking back at me, too. Smarmy git.
Gracious in defeat, I shouted after him: “It doesn’t count if it came with a plastic table, you know!”