The Meaning of Liff

You get up. It's raining. You take an umbrella. It has stopped by the time you're leaving the house. When you get off your bus it starts to rain again. You hit a small child in the head putting your umbrella up. People glare. When you get to work your umbrella sits dripping rudely in the corner all morning. You glance out the window once or twice: it's sunny. At lunch, you head off without your umbrella. It starts to rain. You get soaked. All afternoon you sit dripping rudely in a corner. By home time it's sunny again. Well-groomed people in summer clothes stalk the streets happily on your way home. You scowl and hug your wretched umbrella to you. It is ridiculous and useless but by God, you're not letting go of it.

On the way home, you fall asleep on your bus and have to be woken by the bus driver at the last stop. You leave your umbrella on the bus. The next day it pours.