“See you later, mate,” he yells to his friend, Connor, in his deep Liverpool accent. He bundles his papers under his arms and half stumbles-half runs out the door. Of course due to his punctuality that morning, the only parking spot left was the furthest from the door. After arriving at his four-by-four, he feels the familiar dribbling of water on his cheeks. He pats himself down, frantically searching for his keys after predicting a disastrous ending. Just my luck, he thinks as the pitter-patter grows and seems as if a basin were being drained above his head. He’s never been good at opening his eyes while swimming and has to resort to feeling around blindly, in the hopes that maybe one of his other senses will grow stronger. With a flourish, he produces a bundle of silver from his jacket pocket and does a little victory dance. Like an Olympic athlete, he yanks open the door and dives into the car, escaping the river that was attempting to drown his shoes. He breathes heavily once he’s inside and shakes his hair, much like the way a corgi would. He uses his jacket sleeve to wipe off the water although it just feels like patting himself with a tea-soaked biscuit. He leans back in his seat but suddenly glowers at the new sight before him.
The sun was shining.
No rain. No showers. Nothing. Nothing but a shimmering, golden light. Basking in the warmth, he smiles and doesn’t even mind the forty-five minutes he endures stuck in traffic. Midway through belting out Adele’s “Make You Feel My Love,” he stops when he hears a tat-tat-tat on the roof of his car. It increases and heightens to such an extent, it just sounds like white noise. He stops the car, having arrived at his house, and watches the rain droplets turn to hailstones. They continue to hammer against his windshield so hard that for a moment, he wonders if it will actually break.
The front door is less than five metres away. I can make it. Clenching his keys, he leaps out of the vehicle and sprints to the door so fast; he thinks he could easily beat Mo Farah. But alas, he survives the hurricane and pads into the kitchen after slamming the door shut, listening to the squelching of his socks with every step.
He makes some tea and just as he is carrying it to the table, he looks outside, only to find bright, glorious sunshine.----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This piece was inspired by the phenomenon I experienced this weekend, A.K.A. British Weather. I'm not sure if I've mentioned it already, but incase I haven't already, I am British and I currently live in England. England is an amazing country and the city of London is one of the most beautiful places on this Earth. However, the weather here is constantly a hot topic among locals as we can experience a multitude of weather conditions in the space of 24 hours. Nevertheless, that's what makes this country truly British.
At my school, we were given an assignment to write a poem or a short story based on Britan. This was originally my first idea but the idea that I currently am submitting only came to me at the end of this piece. ( I shall post my entry after it has been judged.) Believe it or not, I actually experienced this on the weekend. (Maybe not the hailstones, but the rain certainly felt like little bullets attacking me.)