Pity the poor Met Office; the term ‘can’t do right for doing wrong’ springs to mind when thinking about the latest row about a misplaced weather forecast.

12 months ago, the Office was under fire for inducing mass hysteria when it announced that 2009 would be a BBQ summer.

This announcement left tills ringing in its wake, as buyers rushed to stock up on garden goods and maxi dresses only to be left with a damp squib of a summer that left our good countrymen huddled under all those newly purchased gazebos.

As a result of last year’s gaffe, the Met has been hesitant to make any predictions this year. Until now, when the team wrongly wrote off the May Bank Holiday as a wet weekend. Now, Visit Cornwall has waded into a full blown row with the Met, furious that overzealous damp weather predictions put off potential holidaymakers in their droves.

Down on the south coast, Bournemouth Council has even set up its own forecasting service after claiming the Met Office cost businesses £1 million in lost trade over the Bank Holiday.

Credit to the teams behind Visit Cornwall and Bournemouth Council PR for piggy-backing on a small story and gaining national exposure in today’s press. But come on guys – isn’t it time to leave the Met office boffins alone?

We all know the likelihood of a summer filled with unbroken blue skies is about as likely as snow in Miami, so let’s stop with the grimacing and do the opposite instead. Sun is predicted this weekend, so I’ll be sure to carry my brolly and then if it does come out to shine – well that’s just an added bonus. Happy BBQ-ing people.

It’s become something of a tradition of mine to grace Wimbledon’s hallowed turf (well, not quite literally) and this year came my Centre Court christening. As a sporting fan I’ve been to many iconic stadia – Twickenham, Millennium, Anfield, Ascot and Old Trafford – but none quite conjures up a feeling of British aristocrat tea drinking like Wimbledon does. Strange really considering our last homegrown winner came in 1977! Ever the eternal optimists we live in hope that Murray will one day come good and the fresh faced Laura Robson will steal Virginia Wade’s rusting crown.

Whether there’s a British player in the final or not (and God help us when there is), you can’t argue with the entertainment that was served up to 12.7 million viewers over four hours and 48 magnificent minutes as Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer displayed the ultimate in tennis playmaking. I had the honour of watching the prelude, which admittedly didn’t quite live up to the same intense drama, but, hats off, the Championships has done it again in galvanising a nation and delivering breathtaking tennis. My ballot paper will certainly be in the post come 1 August!

It’s been exactly two years since I first installed my Dalek-like composter discreetly round the side of the house. Since then I have zealously fed it every rancid bit of fruit and veg peel, egg shell, tea bags etc. I save these up on my kitchen window in a ‘compost caddy’ which, during the summer months, gives birth to a plague-like swarms of tiny flies which greet horrified friends.

On discovering banana skills or potato peel thrown thoughtlessly in our normal bin, I’ve held family inquests to discover the culprit. I’ve regularly stirred the evil-smelling mixture in the garden; got the boys to collect worms to eat through it; nurtured it with composter accelator; and kept it warm by topping it with an avocado-coloured bath mat my Mum gave me (sorry Mum).

And still, a whole 24 months on, the bloody thing is stubbornly refusing to produce a single drop of anything resembling compost. 7-year-old Louis, who now considers himself something of an expert in farming, is urging me to transfer it to a sunny spot to generate more heat – perhaps next to the patio where we can view it at close quarters while enjoying a summer barbecue. However, the prospect of lifting the thing up and discovering the results of two years’ detritus is less than appealing.

No volunteers so far.