We have an office in London. It’s quite a departure from the usually mundane northern suburbs of Chicago office that I’m used to. I’m pretty sure the building was once something that somebody wrote a story about. Now it’s housing for busy people doing busy things. The building was beautiful in a way that my architecturally-minded brother would appreciate. Me, I notice but move on quickly.

There’s nothing like a ten-minute power walk past millennium old castles to remind you that you’re out of shape. Physically, as well as mentally.  I huffed and puffed and made it, barely.  There was no time to take pictures. No time to collect my thoughts. After all, we were on our way to work. I wasn’t laying down enough proverbial bread crumbs, and that turned into a mistake only a sore thumb could appreciate.

Just an hour into work (sitting, doing nothing actually,) I realized a dire need to return to the hotel. A small bathroom in a small office is no place to get completely comfortable. In a strange land, amongst strangers who will no doubt judge you violently in your absence, you must exercise discretion. Simply put, this wasn’t the place for number two.

Enlisting a friend who was also in need of the hotel for a much better, but not so dire, reason, we set out on what can only be labeled as “The Great London Umbrella Debacle.”  I’m a titler. I title incidents for the sake of remembering  them. Not that this such incident is forgettable, it’s just that much better with a title.

Four steps into a courtyard that housed the architecturally-beautiful office building, we were introduced to a bout of stereotypical English weather. Rain, wind, no sun, lots of people moving quickly, and two sore thumbs in need of umbrellas. Thankfully, a little shop nearby was setup for just the occasion of preying upon tourists that hadn’t enough respect for Mum Nature.

Four steps from the shop, my colleague’s T-shaped umbrella was violently converted into a familiar and never-not-funny Y-shape. I have the innocent and immature glee of a six-year-old, (psychological defense mechanism?) and at this very moment I was rapt with enough of that glee as to force upon me an unstoppable and uncontrollable giggle fit.

This giggle fit was soon worsened by my careless neglect for my own T-shaped umbrella. Somehow, I managed to turn that T into a combination Y and L shape. A bastard letter that is unrecognized by my keyboard, and symbolically represents “wet P.J.”

Ill-equipped and navigationally challenged, we pressed on. Not accounting for the maniacal construction of streets paved over paths worn out by horses, we were slowly, and wetly, moving more to the right than was necessary. Thankfully, somebody thought to place our hotel against the river Thames, and very close to the unmistakable Tower Bridge. This would help us come to the conservative estimate of being two miles further than we should’ve been.

I’m not a walker, so my disappointment was fierce. As was my impending doomful situation. On an unwritten, and for purposes of this writing alone, list, shitting my pants ranks as the number one thing I don’t want to ever do again. (Yes, again. I was in the third grade and am far removed from the memories of being hosed down by my grandmother in the backyard. Laugh it up, because that’s the only value to me adding this.)

As with most stories that are drawn out of little-to-no substance, this ending comes swiftly, suddenly, and much like the way you expected it. We followed the mighty Thames up to and into our hotel, thus ending any and all concerns of involuntary underwear desecration.

Lessons were learned, laughs were large, two umbrellas were thrown away, and a taxi was hailed for the return trip.

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