It was fine for the British Racing Drivers’ Club man under his plastic canopy. He was steering a buggy that took the blazers, their wives and families, friends and other assorted liggers from a sodden car park to the sanctuary of the club house.
Stop to ask the driver - waiting and empty at the front of his articulated carriage — if he would kindly give you a lift and he would decline. You may have paid £155 for the privilege of getting soaked to the bone but a helping hand from the hosts was beyond his generosity.
The helicopter that was due to bring in Mark Webber, the Red Bull driver who lives in nearby Aston Clinton, could not take off, so a scooter was sent out to enable him to weave through the queues. He arrived in his race overalls, ready for action.
Meanwhile, in Silverstone’s mission control with its myriad televisions, you could watch Wimbledon. Federer was breaking Djokovic in the fourth set on one screen and the punters were bumper to bumper on another. Strawberries and cream, anyone?
