The Pink Umbrella

Thursday 3rd September. Rush hour, rain, fifteen minutes to catch the train, and the lights are on red next to the bus stop at the Theatre Royal. Atmosphere in the car: somewhat tense. A woman in cream, chubby, with a pink umbrella, is running into a headwind to catch the number 1. Will she make it? Will she not? Tough call- number 1 is indicating to pull out, but there's nowhere for it to go; it's suspended at that awkward angle, half-in, half-out of the bay, and can't go any further until the lights change.

Woman-in-cream thinks it's in the bag. She's slowing down, reaching into her coat to retrieve her purse, and in doing so she makes the fatal mistake of lowering her pink umbrella and loosening her grip on the handle. This coincides with a particularly lively gust of wet north wind, and all at once the pink umbrella is cleaved in two, the outstretched canopy wafting away over two rows of stationary traffic.

Woman-in-cream doesn't get it at first. She notices a sudden weight has been lifted from her right arm, and then, casting about for an explanation, sees a nylon hexagon dancing across steaming bonnets out of the corner of her eye. The penny drops, and a dilemma presents itself: to traverse the grid of steaming bonnets and bring her pink umbrella back in line, or to let it go and buy another one at lunch. The lights have changed, the number 1 has pulled away, and it is quite apparent that the fuchsia menace terrorising cyclists across the road belongs to her- she's still holding the handle.

The pink umbrella has alighted under the front wheel of a black Audi, the driver of which doesn't know what to do with himself. The canopy is jammed open, the fabric ruched and torn in places, revealing the tips of a few naughty spokes.

Will she retrieve it? Will she not? We'll never know; we drove away.