Whenever I tell people I used to be a TV weather girl, I am either met with prurient pity, like I was some sort of wanna-be media slut, or excessive interest, tinged with a snigger. What is it about reporting the weather, especially if you are female, that is so damned funny? You are actually imparting information about something that affects everybody and, deep down, everyone is interested in, yet it’s always television’s joke job.
Before I moved to London, I was a reporter at a station called CHAT-TV in the small, comically-named town of Medicine Hat, Alberta. This involved attending tedious town council meetings where lots of boring phrases like ‘farm subsidies’ and ‘land tax deregulation’ were bandied about, or picking up the morning police reports, most of which were filled with who got busted for driving drunk the night before. My weather presenting duties seemed positively glamorous by comparison.
For five minutes (or more, if the sports guy was still finishing his joint in the john), I had the camera to myself as I stood and extemporised about the chances of rain tomorrow. No tele-prompter soother for me to suckle, I had to draw deep into my improv well and deliver an off-the-cuff and always upbeat monologue, ensuring these important aspects were covered:
1. temperatures today, tonight and tomorrow (with informative asides if unseasonably cold/hot)
2. in winter, number of inches of snow that had fallen and/or will fall with cautionary remarks about icy sidewalks or cheery ones about snowmen
3. in spring, number of inches of rain that had fallen and/or will fall with cautionary remarks about umbrellas or cheery ones about good for crops, etc.
4. the wind-chill factor: if slightly high, could give zen-like aphorism that ‘it will feel colder than it really is’, if really high, could go whole hog and say face would freeze off
5. heat or humidity? nature or nurture? Maple Leafs or Canucks? (good way to hand over to stoner sports guy)
6. and - if I was feeling especially clever - sunrise and sunset times!
While presenting this steady stream of facts, I had to stand in front of an invisible map. Viewers could see a map of Western Canada behind me, all I could see was a blank blue wall. Nonetheless, I rattled away, pointing assuredly at cities like Edmonton, Vancouver and er, Moose Jaw. This technical trick was called ‘chroma-key’. I still can’t really explain how it works. I still can’t find Moose Jaw on a map either but I can tell you its average yearly rainfall.
Where did I get all this information? Why, from Dave at the ‘weather office’, located in Medicine Hat’s miniscule airport. I began to look forward to my daily chats with Dave. From what I assumed was his vantage point in an air traffic control tower, Dave would warn me about incoming cold fronts, low pressure systems and one day, something called the Alberta Clipper.
‘Can you see the sea from there?’ I joked. ‘No,’ said Dave, ‘why?’ ‘Never mind,’ I said. Dave was a serious chap. ‘What shall I tell our viewers about the Alberta Clipper? I’m guessing it’s not a boat.’ ‘It’s a fast moving, snow-producing system that originates in the Rockies. It moves quickly, often bring gusty wind and arctic air,’ said Dave, who knew his weather systems. I just knew that I had to tell everybody it was going to be bloody cold that night.
Actually, I wouldn’t say ‘bloody’ because that’s not really an adjective in Canada, unless you are describing a hockey fight. I wouldn’t say it in England either, because it’s a swear word and weather presenters in England never, ever swear. No, cursing might give away the fact that the weather in England is well, awful. English weathercasters are the nicest people on the planet and masters of the euphemism.
So instead of saying that the sun will appear for a milli-second in mid-afternoon, there will be sunny ‘spells’. Instead of noting that the skies during waking hours will be a monotonous, un-ending, suicidal grey, it will be a ‘dull day’. If it has been raining solid for a fortnight, over 2 weekends, one of them a holiday, they will still be smiling and saying ‘A light drizzle may be hampering picnic efforts today!’ You have to admire them really.
And admiration, not admonition is what weather presenters deserve. Appreciation instead of mockery, please! If you’re a weather woman, it does not mean you failed the audition to be a Shopping Channel presenter. If you’re a weather man, it does not indicate an inability to interview footballers about defence strategy. Weather presenters are not naff, they’re necessary. Now, don’t forget your umbrella.
