Birmingham airport. It is teeming with rain. Absolutely hooning it down. Rainfall of biblical proportions.
In fact, I'm just ready to hear Gabriel's trumpet. It's as close to Armageddon as I think it's possible to get.
And there is nothing - and I mean nothing - funnier than the sight that greets us as the taxi driver drops us off. All the people streaming out of Arrivals, all clearly returning from sunnier climes.
And all of them are wearing the classic Brits-abroad combo of shorts and vest tops.
The collective look on their faces as they negotiate the car park, amidst a torrential downpour, the wind whipping at the puddles and sending up spumes of spray, is priceless.
The fact is, I find this sort of thing funny. Does that make me a bad person?