Sean Bowen: 'I'm useless at everything else bar riding horses - it drives my partner mad!'

To mangle a well-known and popular piece of philosophy: there's no such thing as bad weather, just poor mental attitude. Which may be why, as the rest of us trudge torrentially from car park to gate to betting ring, with socks already dampening and little drops of rain dripping down the backs of our necks, Sean Bowen is skipping merrily back to the Lingfield weighing room with seemingly not a care in the world.

I imagine, of course, that it's far easier to make light of the elements when you're standing well clear atop the jockeys' table, within touching distance of 100 winners for the season, peering over your shoulder at rivals who look in need of oxygen. Added to which, when you're on your game, you tend to make the right calls, whatever the weather. But this is a serious Surrey monsoon.

Today, with his sodden silks discarded, waiting in chipper fashion for the inquisition to begin, it becomes clear that Bowen has chosen his undergarments well. Where many of us would have settled for a thermal vest from Marks and Sparks, the 26-year-old is light enough to be able to afford the luxury of a white plastic, wet-look top that presumably laughs in the face of precipitation and may well be on special offer in the men's section of Ann Summers.