Behind the graffitied wall and above the green canopy of cherry trees, dark clouds gather. Churned sand sits uninvitingly in sodden clumps. Fat raindrops pearl off metal and rubber, out of the wood seeps a dank mossy smell.That moment on a wet day when the rain fleetingly holds its breath; we are alone in the playground.

Our shoes squeak as we clamber onto the plastic trampolines. Two children dwarfed by school bags trudge past in yellow anoraks and glance enviously in our direction. Up and down, side to side, one foot, the other foot – we jump and shout and shriek and spin. I am as thrilled as my children: snatched pleasure on a day we’d given over to jigsaw puzzles and colouring crayons.

As the first new drops fall, tiny and barely perceptible, we jump more furiously. The heavy summer air presses down upon us, but this is a moment to be extended not curtailed. Our arms flail as the wind whips around the climbing frames and nudges the swings.

The rain falls faster and harder now. I know my cotton jacket will not hold. Hoods low over our brows, defeated but still elated, we abandon the playground to deluge and march homewards. Tugging a breathless, soggy child with each hand, I shiver inwardly, deliciously happy to be here.