A lot of hot air

By Will Smith

For me, the weather exists in the present. I pay attention to it if it’s above my head. Forward planning—umbrellas, etc—is not a strong suit. So when I arrive at the rain-lashed front door of Britain’s weather service, the Met Office in Exeter, I am soaked. My shoes are squelching, my clothes sodden (no, I didn’t bring a coat).

Helen Roberts, a forecaster and my minder for the day, looks at me. "It was forecast,” she says, pointing to a screen in the foyer where looped satellite images show dark clouds snaking across Devon. She later confesses that meteorologists are essentially “monitoring chaos"; I feel this is some mitigation for looking as if I’ve gone surfing with my clothes on.