Until one day, I opened it and every rib and joint and strut in it disarticulated, and it fell apart, like the Deacon's masterpiece.
The greatest umbrella story of my personal experience belongs to a high school friend of mine named Steve, who was part of the concert choir and jazz band's trip to England and France in April 1999. It rained a lot on that trip. Steve's umbrella began to die in Rouen. Struts caved in. Panels began to flap. Two days later in Paris it gave up the ghost while a group of us were out walking—in the rain, naturally—necessitating Steve to dash out of sight to replace it. He returned with a gigantic montrosity in pastel pink and purple flowers which almost labeled itself in superfluous neon, "Hello, I was the first umbrella in sight."
It kept him dry for the rest of the trip, though. So it was cool.
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The greatest umbrella story of my personal experience belongs to a high school friend of mine named Steve, who was part of the concert choir and jazz band's trip to England and France in April 1999. It rained a lot on that trip. Steve's umbrella began to die in Rouen. Struts caved in. Panels began to flap. Two days later in Paris it gave up the ghost while a group of us were out walking—in the rain, naturally—necessitating Steve to dash out of sight to replace it. He returned with a gigantic montrosity in pastel pink and purple flowers which almost labeled itself in superfluous neon, "Hello, I was the first umbrella in sight."
It kept him dry for the rest of the trip, though. So it was cool.