You have to feel sorry for the weather reporters, don't you?
I mean, the poor beggers can only pass on to us the same information that they've been given by the Bureau of Meteorology. What the weather does next is totally out of their control. Yet, if the weather doesn't behave exactly as predicted, it's those same reporters that cop all the flack, and get called ten different kinds of idiot for not getting it right.
Take this weekend - which is yet to finish - for example. Friday was going to be hot, but not especially unbearable. The predicted temperature was 33° Celsius (91.4° Farenheit); the weather decided to go to 38°. Yesterday was supposed to be 35° Celsius (308.15 kelvin); try 41° (32.8° Reamur) instead.
Get the picture? Whatever the weathermen predict, the weather tops by an average of five degrees. So, seeing as the predicted top temperature for today is 43° Celsius (569.07° Rankine), are we going to reach 48°? If we do, it's highly likely the remaining solid part of me that is able to write this will have capitulated and blended into the puddle already on the floor.
I reckon there should be a cut-off point for reporting the predicted temperature; if only to give the weathermen a means of protecting themselves from the wrath of the extremely sweaty population. If the temperature is going to be higher than 30°, instead of giving an actual temperature they should be allowed to say that it's going to be bloody hot.
That way, they've covered all the bases, and we can say they weren't bloody wrong.
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