No, please, no!
Ooh, it's horrible weather here. Blowing a gale, lashing rain, driving the dog back into the house before she's even off the front step, willing to let her bladder burst rather than go out in that.
I'm slightly anxious. The flights booked in pleasant autumn weather are looming: next Monday Rose and I are off to Devon, in a tiny, tinny little plane, and who knows what the weather will be like that morning?
I hate windy weather. And I hate flying in windy weather even more. I once flew home from San Francisco in weather that was so terrifyingly turbulent ("bumpy air" they kept calling it, to dispel the quite reasonable fancy that we were plummeting in short ferocious bursts to a watery grave) that the cabin crew remained strapped into their seats, silent and avoiding eye contact, for the last hour and a half, we didn't get any breakfast (hurrah), and we arrived at Heathrow a full hour sooner than scheduled, green in the gills and rigid with terror.
Fingers crossed for a Monday without fog, wind, rain or bumpy air. But it is November in Britain.