Perfect Picnics

In light of my recent Picnicing catastrophe I’ve decided to take measures which will bestow Pycnophants – a word used by all Picnic lovers, it combines the words Picnic and sycophant and means a flatterer of Picnics – with a simple guide with which to measure the suitability of potential Picnics. This guide (and guide in practise) means that one need never attend a faux Picnic.

Guide rule 1: Each person’s name must begin with ‘J’. That way the Pycnophant can purchase shirts, customise them with a letter ‘J’ and call themselves the JJ’s – the kids at work’ll think you’re really cool!! Ideally the attendees should have Christian names such as John, Jack, Jill, Jane, etc. However, replacing the first letter of your non-‘J’-Christian name is also acceptable – Jatthew, Jenjamin, Jicholas, Jimothy, Jebecca, etc.

Guide rule 2: There should be three common sounding folk to each posh sounding person. This means, much like Orange cordial, that the flavour of the Picnic’s conversation will be pleasant, and nourishing without being overbearing.

Rule 3: No food should be consumed before the hill has been conquered.

For complete certainity of a person's suitability quiz them on their last picnic, they should tell you it went something like this: (note, any variations should be seen as a strict red light and said Picnic should be avoided at all costs.)

Sat on top of a hill.

John: Pass us one o’ them there Ham Sannies           

Jeff: Sure thing, Broseph, coming at ya.

Jeff throws Ham Sandwich which separates in mid-air and ham flies in all directions.

Jane: Oi, you’re getting ham all over me sneakers.

Jerusalem: And did these feet in ancient times, walk upon England’s mountains green?

Who’s Picnic Is This?

By the time I’d reached eight (and what I hoped would be middle-age) I’d mastered very few things. My weak grasp of left and right got me thrown from a glove shop, I ate my Sunday meal with Chopsticks, I wore trousers round my ankles, socks round my knees, and I couldn’t cut my own hair – unlike my friend Alex who cut his own and everyone else’s. This is certainly not a woe ridden piece of stigmata because along with space travel, time-travel, pre-travel, post-travel, traveller’s checks, Travel Morrison, Travelodge, I had managed, in my wholly specialised brilliance to master Picnic preparation and consumption. The ingredients were simple; call Ol and Alex, shove six mint Clubs, a bottle of spring water and a few ham sandwiches in a bag, find a hill, climb hill, eat picnic, roll in much mud, and laugh until we cry/die. As there was nothing left for me to learn in this particular ‘field’ I moved on – and unfortunately never mastered another damn thing.

Last night, eighteen years after those heady days, I was called upon to attend another Picnic. I accepted, and swaggered into the party with my customary bag full of ham sandwiches, a cheeky grin and the declaration “which hill we climbing today, ladies?” To my complete (hmmm) surprise the ‘beautifully scenic’ hills/mountains were nothing more than eye-candy for a surreptitious crowd of gaggle-hawkers. I’d been deceived and no amount of lake, candle or velour table cloth was going to hide the fact that Ol and Alex were, no doubt, in the mountains of Shanghai, drinking spring water, rolling in mud and laughing at their lack of ham sandwich sustenance, sans me.

High heels to a Picnic - the times they are a changin’.