4 minute read
Feature
No Picnic
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The sun shone. Relentlessly. No dire portents of storms darkened the weather forecast for days to come. No rain at Wimbledon. Confusion set in. Was this summer? Was this even England? Was this…. and the notion arose in the minds of those over a certain age… 1976? After all, ABBA and the hosepipe ban were back.. No. For one, in 1976, as far as she remembered, there was a general feeling of joy that you could reliably plan something outside. And relief from parents that it wasn’t raining during the holidays. But in 2022 she was determined that they would enjoy the weather despite the grim warnings; they would be careful. Gone were the lazy, hazy, crazy days of her youth when she’d lie in the sun under, presumably, a fully functioning ozone layer, wearing nothing but baby oil. The very thought made her shudder and apologise to her poor abused skin. Yes, she decided – they would partake (somewhere in the shade, wearing factor 30) of that great British tradition – the picnic. Or even that great French tradition - Le Picnic – if baguettes were involved. Over the years picnics had featured with reliable regularity. Some had been weird; the brie and broccoli sandwiches – soggy, bland, smelling sort of farty. Others had been wonderful; Greek meze and a bottle of red on an Ionian beach. Picnics could be good, bad and downright waspy. One wet August bank holiday, trying to impress a new boyfriend on a first date, she’d bought M&S everything. No matter the weather was disappointing, she’d thought, the food would compensate. They’d arrived in the New Forest only to find that the cold bag with the cool drinks, prawn sandwiches, the pork pies and the fancy chocolate puddings, had somehow been left behind amidst the splashy mad dash through the torrential rain to the car. Sat in a layby with just napkins, condiments and crisps, watching a sodden New Forest pony empty its bowels, had been a bit of a low point. A glum “home?” followed by a glummer “why not.” Funny, she couldn’t recall a second date.. The memory of following a family on a long trek along the banks of the Thames loomed large as well. Everyone including the children had trudged, weighed down with bags, baskets and insulated boxes. As they unpacked, the mystery was revealed; multiple china plates, bowls, glasses and bottles. As, sat nearby, she had enjoyed a lunch-less excursion with Himself, he commented, “they’ve forgotten something.” Enviously, she’d watched the family dishing up an elegant feast of prawns, cold chicken, hot new potatoes, salad and chilled white wine, followed by an elaborate roulade - and cheeseboard eaten from more china crockery. Cups of tea appeared, made with water boiled on a primus and poured from a tea pot. Unable to imagine any omissions she asked, hungrily, “forgotten what?” Himself had laid back comfortably on the grass and said “The servants. All that prepping and lugging’s no picnic.” The group ate their lunch, hunched uncomfortably over on blankets, chasing slippery tomatoes and potatoes around their plates with knives and forks. When they left, it had to be said that rarely had a picnic, in the history of picnics, looked as heavy on the long walk back to the car as it had on the way out. Recalling these experiences – with not ‘overly elaborate’, ‘heavy’, ‘bland’, ‘soggy’ or ‘smelly’ uppermost in her mind, she consulted Himself. “I’m thinking colourful, tasty poke bowls of salmon, carrot, avocado, edamame, brown rice and sriracha mayo.” Her daughter, living in stylish Brisbane would, no doubt, approve. “Um… Can’t we have prawn sandwiches and pork pies, Darling? And crisps. And maybe those nice chocolate puddings from M&S? The last thing I want to be doing is sitting hunched over on a blanket chasing salad around…” Himself murmured. Well, there was that. With their local town’s M&S sadly the subject of recent closures, she planned a drive-by shop for sandwiches, pies and puddings at a Marks’ service station en-route to the forest. Mentally she gave herself a knowing look and shrewd tap on the nose; can’t leave the picnic behind if you buy it on the way.. A road closure and diversion put paid to that. A change in the weather and some very un-1976 un-scheduled rain put a dampener on things too. Fate had determined there would be no picnic. There was, however, a quick purchase at the village shop on the way home.. Himself munched happily on the knobbly chocolate bar. “Delicious. No prep, no lugging, it’s not bland or soggy. Do you know,“ he peered at the attractive purple, red and white wrapper, “I think this might be my favourite Picnic®!”
