I was held captive by the Washing Machine Man. Or rather what the Washing Machine Man said. You must be both IN and AWAKE for the next few washes. To make sure it doesn't EXPLODE.
So I stayed in and listened to the whirr of the circulating colours (which will all end up pink. Fact) and the rain outside.
I woke to the rain this morning. And I had dreamt that my usually suited and scarved attic-dwelling friend was wearing a lacquered anorak. Coincidence? I think not.
Also, merely days after leaving the creepy kitten umbrella at an Islington Public House that had both chandeliers and disco balls. That kitten had it coming, wearing its lime green jumper and staring, staring at me with its cat's eyes that followed mine incessantly through all weather, whether it was pouring cats and dogs or not.
This is all a sign I should sail to Cherbourg. In an upturned umbrella, across the Channel. To a technicolour sixties world of pastels and brights, co-ordinated wallpaper, carnival apocalypse, fake snow, helmet hair, 'maybe the happiness is making me sad', and where Catherine Deneuve et al sing everything, including ps and qs, Francois et Francoise and postmen have cameos of Bonjour ou Au Revoir.
And umbrellas reign supreme among practical yet pretty accessories. It's a hard life running an umbrella boutique. Poverty can strike if precipitation does not. So I shall sail to Cherbourg, wear a mini-dress, marry a jewellery salesman with a 'tache, have another man's baby, backcomb my beehived hair, and buy many an umbrella. All in french melody. Jolie. And in harmony with washing machine whirring.