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It’s Raining In Stockport, And I’ve Got The Red Eye To Prove It

12 Jan
Reflection in a soap bubble.

Image via Wikipedia

I met a friend at a little café in Stockport for breakfast this morning – £1.60 for tea, and two free slices of toast if you order before ten a.m.  It was worth going out for.  It’s always worth going out for free food.  I won’t mention the outrageous bus fare: £1.60 there, and another £1.60 back, but with no toast thrown in.  That was topped by a thirty-minute wait at a wet bus stop because the traffic was horrendous.

I had my umbrella, of course: what self-respecting Brit woman doesn’t?  Not self-respecting Brit men, though.  British men don’t do umbrellas except in movies with bowler hats.  They prefer to get wet.  They may die of pneumonia brought on by a thorough soaking, but at least they die like men.  Or, to give them their correct title, stupid men.

My umbrella is one of those see-through plastic ones the Queen made popular in the Seventies so that she and the Great Wet British Public could see each other on walkabouts.

(You know, I’ve always considered the Hub with his airline mania to be a real geek, but at least he doesn’t subscribe to ‘Umbrella World’)

My umbrella.  Eye, there’s the rub.  I used it yesterday and left it to dry in the downstairs toilet, propped in a corner under the bottle of liquid soap.  On the way to the bus stop this morning I was pleasantly surprised to see the pounding rain pound pretty soap bubbles off its surface, obviously a result of having a clean family who always wash their hands after a comfort break.  I was just admiring a huge one that sneaked under the brolly with me (bubble, not family; it’s only a small umbrella), when it popped, squirting soap shrapnel into my eye.  I was so startled (and in pain), I stepped back, slipped off the pavement, and into a large and dirty puddle.

How I wish I had a dirty family.  If no-one washed their hands after a comfort break, I would be eye-less-in-gauze, err, and not nursing foot rot.*

*I confess, none of that last line is true.  My real medical problem is hyperboleitis.**

**Defined in Tilly’s Dictionary of Made-Up Words as an inability to blog without exaggerating for comic effect. 

Can you forgive me?***

***You have to; I’m racked with guilt and heaving great wracking sobs as I type.****

****Okay, I’ve got a snotty nose from walking in the rain.*****

*****This could go on forever, you know.

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