Pleasure and perils of owning an umbrella

Shelter from the rain: Despite what the popular song would have us believe, few of us like, a) the rain or, b) singing in it. The 1952 movie Singin' in the Rain might be one of the most popular of all time, but it's easy to guess that Gene Kelly did not reside in Ireland. Rosita Boland writes that Victorian fashion dictated that a lady never be caught in the rain.

Oh no - Kelly lived in an American climate where rain apparently appeared only courtesy of rain machines in the MGM studio lot, so he could easily afford to look cheerful as he skipped about with his brolly.

Sooner or later, we give in and everyone buys umbrellas in this country. In the past few sodden months, umbrella sales are up 40 per cent, according to Pat Quigley, assistant accessories buyer at Clery's in Dublin.

The men's brollies range in price from around €4.99 to €50 for the top of the range, the sturdy British-made Fox Frame. "Lots of people go for the lower-priced models, but if you want something that isn't going to turn inside out in a storm or end up in the Liffey, you pay more," Mr Quigley says. In the ladies' department, Frances Deane says there has been a resurgence in the popularity of the dome umbrellas, the clear elongated brollies which are see-through. Folding umbrellas are way ahead of the rigid walking-stick type.

An umbrella, it must be pointed out, is a completely different animal to its cousin, the parasol. Today, the main distinction between the two is that parasols keep off the sun and umbrellas keep off the rain. However, in the Victorian era, there was a very clear social distinction between those who used umbrellas and those who used parasols.

When you key the word "umbrella" into the search engine Yahoo, 264 websites pop up. One of them is about Victorian parasols and it warbles a dance tune to you as you click on it. It imparts the following information: "Though the differences between a parasol and an umbrella may seem to be of little importance today, they were quite significant in the circles of Victorian society. Victorian fashion dictated that a lady never be caught in the rain. Umbrellas were carried by men to protect a lady as he walked her from the front door to the enclosed carriage. A woman who carried an umbrella was publicly conceding that she could not afford to own or hire a carriage for transportation in the rain. However, a woman who carried a parasol was most assuredly a lady."

She sure was, since some antique parasols came complete with jewel-encrusted handles - like the one given to Bettina Rothschild in the 19th century by her fiancé. He actually gave her 18 parasols in total, but the pink one was made of silk, covered with white lace and tipped with emeralds. The handle was jade and also set with emeralds, as was the ring that slipped over the parasol to keep it shut. Not one to leave behind you in the pub, or in the modern equivalent of the carriage, the taxi.

It's a fact: umbrellas have a life of their own and that life contains genetic programming which makes them soon part from their original owners. Amazingly enough, my own umbrella has not yet parted company with me, but that could just be because swiping my umbrella and hoping you could reappear on the streets of Dublin with it afterwards would be a bit like stealing the Mona Lisa and hoping you could pass it off to an art dealer without it being recognised.

My umbrella is green, with large and noticeable, violet-coloured roses stitched around the edges. I bought it in France two years ago and often feel I should take a collection box out with me when I use it, as it provokes such unrestrained mirth in my fellow populace, particularly children, who literally fall about laughing when they see it. You would not want, frankly, to be of a sensitive nature to use this umbrella. If I stood on Grafton Street twirling it for half an hour as a kind of post-modern street theatre sideshow, I'm sure I'd rake it in.

If owning a certain kind of umbrella toughens you up mentally, some umbrellas can - literally - kill you. In 1978, Bulgarian writer and broadcast journalist Georgi Markov was living in London. Markov worked for the BBC, Radio Free Europe, and the German international broadcast service, Deutsche Welle.

He had a large listenership in Bulgaria, voicing his forthright criticisms of the autocratic rule of the incumbent communist society. His broadcasts were perceived as being influential in inspiring the dissident movement in Bulgaria. The KGB were called in to help silence Markov.

In the afternoon of September 7th, 1978 Markov was on his usual commute to work in the BBC. He had left his car near Waterloo Bridge and was walking to the bus-stop which would take him across the bridge to Bush House when he felt a sharp pain in the back of his leg. Looking round, he saw a man picking up a dropped umbrella, who then hailed a taxi and disappeared. By evening, Markov had developed a high fever and there was swelling on his leg where he had been struck.

He died of blood poisoning: the ferrule of the umbrella held by the unknown man had contained a tiny pellet of ricin, a poison more lethal than cobra venom.

Although the press went wild, due to the sensational nature of the story, and Scotland Yard were put on the case, no one was ever charged with Markov's murder.