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.
You turn up with a look of delight painted on your face. Not to comply with this unwritten rule will leave you marked for ever as the curmudgeon’s curmudgeon. A blanket is laid out, on which, soon enough, you’ll have to sit. On the floor. I stopped being able to sit comfortably on the floor when I was not long out of my teens. Even if I can get my legs crossed, I can’t lean forward enough to eradicate the risk of toppling backwards, messily, into a cheesecake or quiche. I have tried kneeling, also without success, and sitting with my legs to my side, like a lady riding side-saddle. Metrosexual as I am, this isn’t manly enough for me. Also, my supporting arm has to do so much heavy lifting that it goes into spasm. In the end, I just have to lie on the floor, on my back, eyes closed and mouth open, hoping someone will pop a bit of food in my mouth or dribble in some warm prosecco. Flies will buzz very close to me, in and out of my mouth like they do with corpses in cowboy films. I will it all to come to an end.
Eventually, burnt and groggy, I’ll struggle to my feet with the help of an annoyed fellow picnicker or, if they have all abandoned me, a passing stranger. Home I will stagger, praying for a change in the weather. I hate picnics.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
