State-sanctioned Haruspicy at the BBC

This afternoon we raced into town to collect a picture that Jof had bought from a charity shop. It is predominantly orange.
The BBC is the voice of reason in the free world: for decades the well-balanced deductions of highly-trained journalists have been broadcast in the Queen's English to all corners of the world, even Birmingham (not Alabama).
And professional meteorologists with state-of-the-art equipment use a global array of sensors, powerful stochastic number-crunching computers and decades of field data to determine the weather for the next 24 hours, and enlighten us, or endarken us, depending.
So late last night they said expect rain all day: we duly agreed a massive Lego session to replace Wednesday park, and in our minds we relaxed, safe beneath our new roof.
Of course instead they had used the age-old method of inspecting the dissected entrails of sheep and poultry, the orientation of the livers auguring an evil area of low pressure dumping inches of rain upon us, because of budget cuts.
The park was warm, sunny and crowded, and I met LittleMax and Ben played football against both of us and I got it in the willy and eye but survived and even when the JBs arrived and joined in, we all knew there was something wrong.
Several times both independently and in groups, we asked to return to mine for Lego, but failed to grasp that in good weather, we're outside. The Trousers of Time are a cruel master, our bodies inhabiting the balmy June day while our brains were inside sheltering from the monsoon in an alternate reality.