I have recently joined Write on Wednesday, a group started by Gill at Ink Paper Pen and Karen at The Rhythm Method – thank you ladies for such a great idea! Of course, many mum-bloggers out there are aspiring, wannabe writers, and what better place to practice than Write on Wednesday

So, here is my first contribution called Rain Walk. This week’s exercise is to go on a walk and write about it (very appropriate), concentrating on composing perfect sentences…We were encouraged to write freely, and edit well.

So…hope you enjoy this, and check out more from Write on Wednesday.

Rain Walk

The sea below roars. Dark clouds have formed on the horizon, and are encroaching. Surfers in black suits cluster around the break point. I am walking. My baby sleeps against my chest, snuggled into the sling. My legs are heavy weights. Like lead they drag beneath me and reluctantly lift with each step. And still the clouds gather above.

I am walking down now, towards the water, and from where I am, I see dolphins playing on the waves. They show off to one another. A surfer drifts along. He, or is it a she? glides next to a dolphin.

Now it is raining. At first a speck drops and melts on my baby’s eyelid. The specks multiply until the rain is sheeting. I run, pulling my black rain jacket over my head and over the sleeping baby, so only her face is poking out. Her face wet. Her nose twitches as the drops gather.

I dive under the barbecue shelter. A bride and groom and their photographer sprint towards the shelter and crowd next to me. A symphony of tympani plays out on the tin roof. The bride’s sculpted hair is collapsing – strands dyed blond stick to her face. A flower hangs above her ear. Mascara streaks her cheeks. She pulls a pink and white check surf-brand jacket over her bare shoulders, covering the large tatoo of a star on her shoulder-blade. The groom yelps as he lurches into the rain to collect three plastic champagne glasses that the wind has carried away. I exchange looks with the photographer. The bride rolls her eyes and shivers.

‘I told them it was risky business, coming out here in this weather,’ the photographer yells, but his voice is barely a whisper under the symphony. Drops have gathered on his terracotta moustache. He cradles his camera in both hands. He towers over me, and gazes at where my breasts are, but he is looking at the baby, whose face is now dripping. I pull my dry jumper sleeve over my hand and pat her dry. She twitches again, threatening to wake.

I am relieved the rain has given my legs a rest.

It stops. The surfers hunched over their boards sit up and disperse. I nod to the photographer as I step into the wet air.