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.