When Rihanna sang –“Under my Um -berella –ella-ella-eh…” she could have well been singing about a fixation or an obsession of the Umbrella, but though it may have sounded so, I surmise it isn’t.
Mine is. A Fetish, that is. Not of the true or rather, extreme type, but yes, it could be termed to be the kind of a sure ‘fancy’ for Umbrellas. Then again, not the expected run for every one of them, but of only those of the Mary Poppin type – long-handled, slim sleek and elegant. The one’s that carry with it a ‘chutzpah’ Worship it I do not, however.
Several, to my name I have had, owned, loved and lost. The Raven-black , the chocolate brown check edged, one with the red handle and border, transparent with brightly coloured scattered letters, another, floral,wooden handled, the dotted black and white with frilled edges. The big polka dotted and…. the list extends. Fond farewells remain, for they have served me well –as weather shield, defense armor, support fortification and statement of style, and I loving everyone of them with equal ardour. There, you have it!
What I’m going to share next is for you to relish and tag a line on.
…bashful she appeared …she was smiling…. head bent she stole a glance and lowered her eyes… couldn’t see the blush but the ecstasy she expressed was clear for all. Time and time again she came right back for that stolen peek at her subject of devotion. Unfathomable it remains but the veneration and sustained admiration holds a certain awe and mystery.
Golden brown and femininely petite, this little Pomeranian was making her shy trips to and fro from the cupboard and back. With a wag of her lowered tail, shy smiling glances and half lowered eyes she barely lifted her tiny head to acknowledge the presence of the Umbrella as it hung at its usual place at the side of the cupboard. A sudden unearthing and one so bafflingly mystifying, the family session’d brainstorms in decoding this curious comportment.
No track trace could lead us to a clear inferred wrap –up but that this was little Betsy’s fetish for the Brolly – a common connect for Betsy and me.
