4 minute read
Light relief
LIFE’S A PICNIC
Darrel Bristow-Bovey shakes off the winter blues and gets roped into an age-old springtime activity he’s not ready for... “What are you doing with that blanket?” I demanded. My partner was humming in a suspiciously sunny manner, shaking out and ceremoniously folding a particular tartan blanket that I hadn’t seen for a while, and the sight of which made me feel distinctly uneasy.{
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She stopped her humming long enough to give me a smile like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. “Isn’t spring wonderful?” she beamed.
“Mmm…” I replied warily, but inside I was thinking, “Uh-oh.”
“Warm days, birds singing, flowers blooming…”
I could tell she was building to the two syllables I most dread. “It’s just the perfect time of year for a…”
“Please don’t say it.”
“…picnic!”
I let out a howl that could be heard across three suburbs and caused hadedas to fall shrieking from the sky.
“Oh, stop it!” she said. “You actually like picnics.”
I do not like picnics. What is there to like about them? Picnics are an evolutionary step in reverse; they are like being transported back to the Stone Age.
I’m not saying that human progress has been an unmixed blessing (perhaps we should have stopped before we invented aircraft carriers), but human beings have had some pretty good ideas over the years – chairs, for instance, and ice cubes.
Many centuries ago, through a long process of trial and error, our ape-like ancestors finally realised that grassy lawns are not the ideal place to rest your wine glass if you don’t want it to fall over, so they invented a thing called “a table”. A lot of sauvignon blanc had to be spilled before we reached that technological breakthrough but now picnic lovers want to throw away all that good work.
“Think about the fresh air,” said my partner.
“Let me explain to you about windows,” I said patiently.
“We need to get in touch with nature,” she said, lovingly smoothing out the blanket, and I could see that she was seeing butterflies and sunlight shining through green leaves and the scent of spring blossoms. I was seeing nature for what it truly is: itchy and cruel, red of tooth and claw.
“It’s dangerous out there. Remember when I was stung in the mouth by a bee.”
“That was your fault,” she snapped. “If you go putting bees in your mouth, you deserve what you get.”
She had a point. I was trying to impress two little girls, and I thought the bee was dead. I pretended to swallow it and hid it under my tongue, which worked well until it woke from its afternoon nap.
“What about mosquitoes and caterpillars?” I tried desperately. “What about floods and tornados? No one ever sprained their ankle sitting in a restaurant. Isn’t the world hazardous enough – why go courting danger?”
“Because it’s cheaper,” she said, playing her trump card.
She waited for me to consider this with an air of triumph. She knows that if there’s one thing I like more than comfort, it’s saving money.
“Cheaper…?” I said.
“To go on a picnic. It’s just a visit to the supermarket to get tasty ingredients, most of which we can probably take home afterwards and use again. You can bring your own wine. Compare that to a restaurant bill. You do the maths.”
I did the maths.
“So…” I said, calculating, “if we invited someone to a picnic with us, and we catered, they would probably have to reciprocate by taking us to a restaurant, right?”
“Um, I suppose so.”
“Here,” I said. “Let me help you shake that blanket out properly.”
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