Gimme Shelter.


Yesterday, my umbrella bit the dust.

I bought it in August of 2008; just a few days into mine and Glyn’s first Edinburgh Festival. It was purchased out of necessity – anyone who’s experienced a Scottish summer will know what I’m talking about – and stuck with me through thick and thin ever since.

In all that time not a single bad word has passed between us. I probably shouldn’t be surprised by this: after all, it’s just an umbrella.

But what an umbrella. I bought it in Boots at the foot of the Royal Mile, during a brief respite from a depressing day of flyering (there were plenty of those). Glyn got one too - though our third cast member, Cal Tumminello, decided to opt for just a plastic bag instead.

It was the wettest summer the city had seen in years; consequently, Cal soon became the wettest Italian.

Our matching pair of brollies was a source of constant confusion; the handles were a slightly different colour, though I could never remember which was mine. They also came spring-loaded, with a satisfying automatic release; if push came to shove, they could double as a weapon.

My then-new umbrella even had a brush with fame, appearing briefly in a BBC2 Culture Show special:


(That picture pretty much defines popular culture.)

Five years on, my brolly has met a bitter end; yesterday’s 35mph wind proved to be one gust too many. I’ve brought an identical replacement; sure, it looks and feels the same, but it doesn’t hold these memories. I get a small buzz from the unfamiliarity, but nothing else.

At least my other one had a good innings.

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