It’s a bittersweet time of year. The season of tiny shorts is giving way to wondering whether the trousers you last wore in May still fit. I’ve already seen Christmas tat in The Works; only Sainsbury’s winter-spiced bleach is the greater festive harbinger of mortality. At least we’ve hopefully seen the end of the heatwaves. And, with it, the scourge of the phrase “picky bits”.
For the blissfully uninitiated, picky bits is apparently the new national name for spending £8 on three trays of pastry-wrapped “exotic” confections in a tragic facsimile of the delicious, high-quality deli items our European neighbours enjoy every day of their goddamn lives. Every summer, the ranges get more off their nuts: who knew your picnic needed Turkish grilled pepperoncini and dressed salsa verde chickpeas? (It doesn’t.)
