Picnics? I hate picnics. For a start, it’s always assumed that you’ll be thrilled at the prospect. To be fair, this might be because of the British climate: picnic weather was never the norm, so when picnic weather presented itself, it had to be celebrated … with a picnic. I say let it rain, so we can spare ourselves the trouble.
The faff in the preparation. The baking, making and buying of things. The filling of Tupperware and cool boxes to lug off to whichever patch of grass or – God forbid – sand has been selected. In the excitement, all restraint is abandoned. Somebody will bring something imaginative they have spent a long time cooking, the recipe gleaned from a summer picnic special edition of a Saturday supplement. The ants, the flies, the wasps and passing dogs eagerly await your arrival. As do rodents, already limbering up for the clear-up.
