Those Picnicky Days...

Whimsy on a Wednesday bringing you scorched earth and burning desire

I was walking around the woods the other day and thinking how brown it all was. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still a good amount of green but not what I’m used to. The poor little land has been scorched by the relentless sun and it’s not the pretty England I like. This country doesn’t work well with intense heat. And yes, I’m allowed to moan because it’s not holiday heat. It’s oppressive heat. The kind of heat that is uncomfortable to function in because it’s sweating; pulsating with hot breath. And even when the temperature does drop in an evening, it doesn’t. There’s no breeze. It’s still and passively aggressive. Walls, bricks, and dried earth release the heat of a hundred days like giant radiators. Bedrooms are like saunas. The crappy tower fan moans under constant usage, barely moving hot air around. Pointless. I haven’t pulled a quilt upon my body for months.

It’s just not picnicky anymore.

I want the England back where going out in the sun is a joyous occasion.

Mr Whippy vans sing in the distance.
You shake out your summer dress and slip it on, doing a twirl in front of the mirror. It still looks nice, faded but pretty. 
Picky bits have been bought from the shop and sandwiches are being made with thick sliced bread. 
Eggs have been hard boiled or scotched and orange squash has been made up in old plastic bottles. 
There’s malt loaf for after, 
hand sawn in weird shapes, 
squashed and buttered with a thick spread. 
Some fruit, the bananas are over-ripe and maybe a pack of Kit-Kats- 
they won’t melt as badly as other chocolate.

Have you remembered crisps? 

We’ll get petrol on the way

Did you say the blanket was in the boot?

On the drive you check the sky and tap your feet.
Just a few clouds. 
The sky is bluer where you’re going, 
To that lovely park with open fields near the river.

I can get envious of all the people cruising along on their gypsy barges

Everyone’s out. Shirts off, hats on. 
Plastic rounders sets and footballs. Kids are shouting. 
They’ve been locked up for too long.

Let’s stay back here a bit. Don’t want a ball going in the fuddle

You lay out the tartan blanket. Old and fusty, probably should have aired it. It’s coarse and strong but still a corner lifts from a breeze coming off the water.  

Fetch a stone!

You hold it down with one hand, the other on the lid of your basket. You sit crossed legs like you did when you were a kid in school assembly. 
Waiting. 
The grass is soft and it smells green mixed with the sweet smell of enjoyment. 
A scatter of buttercups vie for attention.

The blanket is secured; a stone on each corner, just in case. 

A friendly pooch appears out of nowhere. 

Food-food-food 

No doggy. Not for you. You look around for owners. Perhaps he could have a crisp? 
Permission needed.

Come here, Bertie. So sorry, he’s a menace!

You wave and smile. It’s a sunshiny day. 
People are like beaming strangers waiting to be friends. 

It’s whimsical and Pimmsical.  
You smile at the secret Pimm’s and lemonade you mixed in the flask. 
It wouldn’t be summer without it.  

The clingfilm is always difficult to remove from the pack and then covered in
 some kind of grease the other side.
Fingertip licking, 1,2,3 
Soft, warm sarnies like delectable, edible putty in stark juxtaposition to the crunch of a Walkers prawn cocktail crisp. 
Fingertip licking, 4,5,6
Taste s-e-n-s-a-t-i-o-n.

Don’t get ants in your pants!

There’s a bit of cloud. Other picnickers are watching the sky with you. 
Like reading the stars. 
You go back to the car and pull your cardigan from the back seat. It’s like a comforter. 
You fold it up into a pillow.
Sandals get kicked off and toes find pieces of grass to weave in between them as you lie back and look for signs of angels or contrails of people going somewhere fancy with their bikini’s.  

There are so many variations of green,
in all the trees dancing in the breeze. 

You forget that about summer.  

The cloud passes. You close your eyes and the sun gently warms your face. 
Take a deep breath. 
There’s a scent of honey in the air. A duck quacks - its friend replies. 
A wood dove gurgles.
The chatter and laughter is a soothing white noise as you drift into your own thoughts
and 
u-n-r-a-v-e-l 
your 
worries. 
Your fingers twiddle with the fringe of the blanket.  
A buzz comes too close and disappears just as fast. 

Your body lies still,
Content.
And your mind goes
on a frolic with the summer wind.

You couldn’t be in a better place if you dreamed it.