It’s not very often that I fall in love with TV personalities. But my lordy, Lisa is the best weathergirl I’ve ever
seen. Sky News has suddenly become watchable again, knowing that Lisa might appear at any minute to give her sweet and sweeping prognostications and pressure systems. She reduces me to blushing boyhood. She has the cutest sense of verbal flow and pitch, she has an absolutely charming intake of breath mid-sentence and an engagingly subtle trace of Irish accent. And smiles, smiles smiles smiles — even the dourest storm becomes a beacon of hope and slick swishing hair. I didn’t realize how deep in I was until some comedic geezer in the Irish Times TV guide let on his guilty pleasure for awaiting and watching Lisa. He picked up on everything: the on again/off again ring and all that implies; the sweet and fresh cuteness; the perfect intakes of breath between low and high pressure systems; everything. Except for the disarming tilt of the head. And I got pissed. I thought she was mine alone. Only I
have noticed and mentally tracked her variations of hair and blazer. To see someone so attractive on TV, so professionally natural and easy on the eye, and completely forget the weather, news and headlines… it could only lead to sighs and wilting whimpers on the couch. She’s got a brain for science and a master’s from Cambridge. She gets up at 3:30 am. She’s got a basic website
and was voted sexiest weather presenter of all time by some men’s rag. But there’s only one pathetic attempt at a fan site
— meaning the market is awaiting the full appreciation. I sense my calling. I declare my duty.