I am maladroit with an awful inevitability. I will catch something, bump something, rip it, stain it with chocolate, trip over it, put a heel through it, get stuck in it.
I stopped using an umbrella when I had my son James and I had to push his pram in the rain and I couldn’t manage both. Two weeks after Eliza was born it started raining and barely stopped for weeks. I learned to get wet but not gracefully. My hair frizzes and my nose runs.
When you are 5’0” and you put up your umbrella in London, you stab everyone around you in the chest and the world becomes a sea of torsos on legs. And if I share someone else’s umbrella both of us get wet. And I’ll inevitably leave it on a train anyway. So there’s just no point.
Except yesterday at RHS Chelsea. This was me.
(Photo credit: J Beecroft)
And I was glad for my umbrella.
An hour or so later and a couple of miles away this man and/or his staff didn’t look out of the window and note the weather. That wasn’t very clever, was it? Or perhaps they did it on purpose. Who will ever know?
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