Last weekend I stepped outside to take the bins out and returned looking like I’d competed in a wet-T-shirt contest no one asked for. My socks squelched and I appeared to be freshly delivered by midwives. Meanwhile, two pint-sized lunatics were in the garden, dancing in puddles like salmon at a rave.

This is Britain in September. Skies the colour of council-estate concrete, rain attacking at a 45 degree angle, and a nation collectively sighing “bloody typical.” As someone who re-located from Australia last year, this has been quite the adjustment.

We’ve been conditioned to treat bad weather like an adversary here. It cancels things, ruins holidays, and feeds our finest national pastime: moaning. But kids don’t start off moaning. They only learn that from us. To them, rain is confetti from the gods.

It’s time we rewired our rain brains and flipped the script, and it starts with prep.