Nowadays, she couldn't introduce herself without evoking a snigger from the people around her. She could almost see their brains making the connection between her and the prissy, toad-like woman in those trashy stories. Children in her neighborhood made fun of her behind her back, imitating her walk and precise diction.
Just as a flare of disgust at this thought ran through her head once again, an errant gust tugged at the umbrella in Dolores Umbridge's hand, snapping the cheap metal struts and flipping the whole mess of an umbrella inside out. Amidst jeers and catcalls from the children on a nearby football pitch, she increased her stride and continued the walk to her flat, where she could wrestle indignantly with the umbrella in the presence only of the kittens painted on her fine china plates.