The Washing Line Storm

We are sitting at our oak dining room table eating pesto pasta and casually discussing the upcoming events of the week when my mother looks up from her meal and says
"All hands on deck!"

In a spilt second we register the chaos that is the storm outside and the impending tragedy of the clothes still on the line.

We run, pesto pasta left in our midst, no time for shoes or coats.

We force our way out into our cupboard of a garden against the wind which is surely forcing us back.

The washing line is in mortal peril and so are the clothes temporarily imprisoned upon it, we tug and grab, unhook and release the clothes. Our view a bedlam of rain spattered clothes and hands grabbing furiously at the same items as each other.

My stockinged feet chilled to the bone, our polyester school shirts clinging to our winter pale skin.

Cries of surprise and laughter at the ferocity and suddenness of the storm fill the whistling wet air.

The storm still rages on, while the sun shines in the far distance. 

Some retreat inside, unable to take the chill and rain.

Three items left on the line, I can barely take it any more, I grab them, clothes pegs twisted into my hand, tights and a pair of odd socks grasped with my shivering fingers, I run inside to promises of hot chocolate and warm clothes.

Only to discover that I am trapped in my school skirt. Hoorah.

This post is a little different to usual and I would really appreciate your opinion, please let me know if you want me to do more like this.