Good morning, people and who do we have here?’

Janice shuffled nervously forward, avoiding the over large hailstones that obstructed her path.

‘Tsk,’ Rodney Carbuncle clapped his hands and a broombot scuttled across the terrace and swept the debris away. ‘Wagner,’ Rodney whispered. ‘The producer wanted a spectacular without the usual drenching. Now, don’t tell me,’ his oily smile was as slick as the sheeting rain that filled the neighbouring field, ‘wedding plans?’

Janice nodded and looked lovingly at her fiancé, Darren. He, meanwhile stared open-mouthed at the vortex that had engulfed the arena to his left, pulling a bonfire from its moorings and creating a spectacular fireball. Rodney sneered as he looked at the display. ‘Footballer. Celebrating some win, I expect.’ He leant towards Janice and whispered, ‘Nouveau, of course. About as much taste as quorn soup. So, what are we thinking? Dappled woodland? Sussurating sycamores? We at Weather Or Not pride ourselves on creating the perfect microclimate for your big day.’

The smarm was professional and overwhelming. The lovebirds gazed at Rodney before saying, both at the same time, ‘Sun’ ‘Snow’.

Darren and Janice exchanged looks, hers horrified, his sheepish. Rodney slipped between them, gracelessly hurrying them towards two large screens at the rear of their arena. ‘I think I know just the thing. Bride arrives in a carriage, furs elegantly draped – classy, my dear, none of your sub Doctor Chivago – with snow gently falling. She steps from the broom,’ he waved impatiently as a bot mistook his reference and began sweeping again, ‘and throws back her cloak as she strides into the sunlit uplands for the ceremony…’

Darren’s eyes were wide open, ‘You can do all of that?’

Rodney picked up a remote and the screen filled with exactly that scene, ‘Darling, for his second inauguration, we made Donald Trump’s tan look real. Believe me, after that it’s not Weather, but when.’