It is raining heavily when we get out at Piccadilly. Hordes of tourists shudder under market-stall umbrellas that will break before they go home. Some stride happily forth in log-flume ponchos, their clothes and bags underneath like organs.
We are ill-prepared. My cords are turned up but they are still too long and they trail in the puddles, and soak up the muddy water. it travels all the way up my legs, like i've been taken by the shoulders and dipped in dye.
On piccadilly we find an abandoned umbrella. Sitting upright and shut, leaning against a wall. Steve takes it, and opens it up. It opens proud, bucket-big and see-through. makes its occupants look like little girls. We huddle under but it shuts on us, and when we try and open it again we see that its broken, the clasp wont fix. You have to hold it open all the way along the street and as soon as you relax it collapses upon you. So you cant relax.
We bring it to the Royal Academy. We go in, and out of the rain, into the lift to the exhibition. the lift is also see-through. A man is operating the lift. "You can't take that umbrella into the exhibition" he says. He doesnt explain why.
There is already a queue to get in. Everyone is tall, and smart, dark clothes, herringbone blazers, black polo-necks, overcoats.
Steve puts the umbrella under his cord jacket and we walk in.
"You cant bring that in here" says the woman on the door. she is a young woman, she is young and her voice is high pitched, she is like a little girl.
"You can check it in at the cloakroom" she says, "Down in the lift"
"OK" we say and we leave the queue.
But instead of going to the lift we roll the umbrella under a bench.
We don't think she sees us but she does.
"You cant leave that there!" she says, her voice shrill and annoyed, she is like a little girl. she belongs under the umbrella, but she wont have it. "Its ridiculous!" she says.
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