A little old lady was in first with a thrust, but I successfully parried, sending a flurry of the wet stuff about her shoulders. I next had to fend off a white-vested delivery guy wielding a huge 58-inch golfer. He came in low, trying to spatter me with the runoff from a shop tarpaulin, but it was too considered a move, and I easily blocked before hitting back with a slight spin that threw large droplets right into his face, spoiling his vision. Not wishing to waste energy on such amateur brolliers, I kept moving, and took advantage of the relative calm to brush my jacket dry and check my stretchers, finding an insidious kink surely resulting from centripetal strain.
Approaching the MTR entrance, a middle-aged suit had his fat fingers gripped, two-handed, around the thick foam handle of a vented design, possibly a Fenton Stormshield. I had little time to notice, as he closed and engaged me with a hard canopy sidepush from 3 o'clock - a classic all-strength manoeuvre. His low centre of gravity to his advantage, I took a hit on the right leg, trails coursing onto my trouser leg. Desperately, I pushed back, but tragically misjudged the give in my stretchers. Short on practice and equipped with my reserve brolly, I was too enthusiastic in my defence and let out a long, pained groan as I saw my tips flick up and carry over the fat suit's ferrule. As you would expect, with my defence breached, the Fenton came crashing onto my neck, one of the worst stickstrikes I have ever suffered.
With some pain and a significant spreading wetness, I limped away, thoroughly routed, and reached the relative safety of the MTR, but not before glancing back at my nemesis. Until the next rains, my fat friend. Until the next rains.
With sincere apologies to anyone who actually bothered to read this...