Saturday: Weather munchkins, I warn you - this column is not for the faint hearted, it's going to be emotional. Hold back the tears, for the time has come for me to bid you farewell and mosey out of West London's weather world once and for all. The desk has been cleared, the office supplies have been stolen and the loo rolls have conveniently disappeared into the back of my car. Wallowing in self-pity I decided I'd be brave and get on with it, but no sooner had I lifted my beautiful head of silky hair the vultures came out to play. Drought.

Sunday: With my chair still holding the imprint of my backside, it was with a loud gasp and pop of wind that I learnt someone has already been sniffing around, trying to steal my title of weather supremo. The audacity of it - I fear I shall lose my fanbase of ten (I rounded upwards, who's to know?) and fade into oblivion. Now my little chicklets, you will never know whether the old man ever got down on bended knee, whether my bubbling belly ever stopped gurgling and, most tragically, you'll never know how beauteous I really am. Hurricane.

Next week: A handful of weather wannabes dutifully trudged down to the pub for my leaving do. So, overcome by sorrow, I lost my stilettos and ended up singing Frank Sinatra's New York, New York while lying on the bar, I wasn't even drinking. What will you do without me? Who will brighten up your mornings and sweeten your tea with her sugary wit - not me. Ho hum. The Weathergirl has left the building. Typhoon.