As a nation, the British spend more time than most celebrating national holidays on rainy days.
Whether it’s the Queen’s official birthday, the mating season for any of her corgis, or simply a day when the banks are shut and ASDA closes at 6pm, the heavens are guaranteed to open for the event.
But not so today, with any luck. And not so yesterday either, even though it was a regular Sunday.
So I’m cheering whoopily in my pyjamas here, poised between the first two decent days out since my mum pushed me round a park somewhere in Skegness in 1967.
Today, I’m doing Stratford, hoping to take in a feast of Shakespeare and perplexed Japanese tourists. Yesterday, I did Staunton Harold, and it was splendid.
Momentarily, I rock.