LIKE Englishmen in hot countries and the Daily Express, I am becoming strangely fascinated by the weather.
One day my interest in meteorological happenings extended to whether I should wear a waterproof or take my sunglasses.
The next I’d become inexplicably obsessed with the height of the River Kent.
“Apparently seven towns could be washed away and never seen again!” is a typical, panic-filled conversation-starter.
This is usually aimed at The Fiance, while I’m scrolling through the Met Office website on my phone. At 3am.
His response is what tells me I’m marrying the right person.
“I know, I’m reading the same article,” comes a muffled voice under the duvet.
His face pops out and he continues in a scared-but-slightly-gleeful voice: “They’re saying we might need to stockpile hundreds of tins of beans! How amaz...er...awful is that?!”
I’m not sure where our weather fascination comes from but it’s certainly something very British.
Like Marmite, queuing and running out of teaspoons, discussing it at great length is a national past time and nobody is happier than when they can postulate about the forecast.
“It’s going to be the hottest day that’s ever been!” you hear people say, when the weatherman predicts temperatures slightly above freezing.
“It’ll melt roads - no, it’ll melt PEOPLE! And they’ll have to put all the chocolate bars in the fridge down at Spar.”
I think the anticipation is what we love best.
As the bad weather last weekend proved, the reality can be truly frightening.
The best case scenario is that there’ll be prediction of apocalpyse, nothing will happen, and then we’ll get to enjoy some bonus weatherman-bashing.
“Honestly,” we love to say, “They told us to expect death and destruction - and yet here I am, right as rain!
“You wish they’d be right just once, don’t you?”