A Guide To Umbrella Etiquette

The worst thing about bad weather isn’t the rain: it is the fact that people don’t need to take a spacial awareness test before buying an umbrella. Yes, you are dry but everyone else is maimed or injured. These little contraptions tend to bring out the selfishness of people and give scars to the rest of us. So with that in mind, here is the Frost guide to umbrella etiquette.

A Guide To, Umbrella Etiquette, umbrellas, how to use

When not using the umbrella, shake it dry but make sure no one is near you first. They won’t be amused and quite rightly so. Also make sure you carry it horizontally when not in use. This will stop you stabbing people or hitting them in the side.

On public transport, the best thing to do with your umbrella is to hold it in your hands or put it between your feet. This will stop you forgetting it and also make sure you don’t get anyone else, or a seat, wet.

Use it when it is raining, but not for a light drizzle unless you are walking in a quiet area. It is not worth poking someones eye out in a busy area if it is merely drizzling. Watch out for big umbrellas too. If they cover more than one person, fine but they are unnecessary for only one person and not recommended in busy areas.

Always be extra cautious when walking around corners. Especially blind ones.

When you are using an umbrella always stop walking and move to the side if you need to use your phone. You need to pay attention when using an umbrella, and a phone for that matter. You don’t want a Darwin award for dying whilst texting.

To pass someone else with an umbrella the best way is to lift your umbrella above or below the other persons umbrella. This is also good on a busy street when space is an issue. The taller person should lift but do so if they don’t. Another option is to tilt. If you tilt away from each other you will remain dry and the umbrellas will not knock into each other. Win win. Don’t over tilt, you might hit someone on the other side of you in the face. As I said: it is all about spacial awareness.

 What would you add to our guide to umbrella etiquette? Please comment below. 

 

 

The Londoner Life Part 2 October {Opinions}

The Londoners Life – October – By Phil Ryan

If there’s one thing that vexes the average Londoner it’s the state of public transport. Mainly because it doesn’t actually work often. It sort of nearly functions. I marvel at the regular announcements on the Underground. Today we have a good service. Two things always strike me about these announcements. One is they are setting me up to get ready for the bad service days by alerting me to the fact that to every equal there is an opposite. And the second is the thought why announce that the system is doing what it’s supposed to be doing. That’s like walking into a restaurant and the waiter coming over and announcing they have plenty of food. That’s the point isn’t it? But once you’ve managed to actually struggle around in the day on our crumbling and ever fragile transport infrastructure the next even more pressing problem is the late night options. And these can be summed up in three words – The Night Bus.

These are effectively large slow moving vehicles designed to contain as many drunks and werewolves as possible. Sprinkle in the few members of the occasional psychotic street gang, the unconscious guy who smells of vomit, and the elderly man wearing a tin foil helmet singing in a curiously low mumbling voice and voila – you have an average Night Bus passenger manifest. Where it says destination they might as well put Narnia. As the doors open the smell of alcohol and chips hits you, you nod at the driver cowering behind his bulletproof glass, he shrugs and off you go. It’s like buying a lottery ticket. And interestingly offers the same complete element of chance. I once got onto a Night Bus in Camden Town. It was packed. So I made my way upstairs onto the top deck. It was full of silent people all dressed in Gorilla suits. I went back downstairs. London. With its unique social fabrics. Difficult to fathom.

Just like asking people for directions. No matter what area you are in, if you pull the car over and tentatively call to a passerby they will do one of three things. Run in terror. Blatantly ignore you. Or smile and say they are not from round there. It’s guaranteed. I now believe that every morning everyone in London goes to a completely different area. Everyone. En masse. They walk around. Fill the cafes. Sit in the offices. Thus guaranteeing nobody is from anywhere local ever. A month back I was in Balham. Somewhere. In a friend’s car. Late and lost. First I tried the obvious approach of asking people walking by. They displayed the three standard characteristics I mentioned earlier. Then I went into a shop. Three guys behind the counter. Sorry mate they chorused. We’re not from round here. It was a 24 hour shop. When did they have time to be anywhere else? A conundrum. But paling into insignificance compared to the new phenomenon that I now struggle with. Re-cycling confusion.

I now have four bins. I used to have just one. But now I have two yellow bags. A brown bin. A blue bin. A green box. Four collection days. And a handy explanation guide from the Council. Written by a dyslexic gibbon. It’s the new thing. Re-cycling. In reality it means stuffing your home with small piles of waste. Rotting food. Great stacks of paper and cardboard. It’s like living in a well furnished refuse facility. The only thing missing is a flock of seagulls and a bunch of those weirdos who turn up in orange boiler suits on weekends. The ones that find a broken chair and reclaim it. They carefully fix it up until it looks just like a broken chair covered in gaffer tape. Coincidentally one lives next door. My next door neighbour is a pinched face woman. She wears one of those knitted Peruvian hats. Her dog is called Krishna. A keen re-cycler she once told me. I’d commented on her orange boiler suit with ‘This is my Planet’ stencilled on the back. And I made the mistake of asking her to explain the new system to me. Sadly she explained it. For an hour. I went back inside. I’d been doing it wrong. I’d been mixing paper with plastics. Food with waste. And batteries with old nuclear warheads. It was ridiculous. I felt bad. I was destroying the planet singlehandedly. But then that’s the whole idea. To put you off balance. As they guilt trip you they can now charge little bits of extra cash. For special waste bags. To pay for new trees in the area. To keep the park nice. To mow the verges. To stop the icebergs from melting. To save the Patagonian purple booby hawk. A Green levy they call it. To pay for things your Council tax used to pay for anyway. I once met my local Council leader. He smilingly told me they ship all my rubbish to China. Very green. Ten billion gallons of diesel and a filthy old cargo ship chugging from Camden to Shanghai. Oil slick trailing behind it. I hate my Council. I have to. But all Londoners do. It’s a London thing.