The picnic
The picnic
There is something quaintly English
About a picnic on the verge,
The car pulled in so very close
The traffic still moving around it
In free flow.
The grass is always cut
Just not quite short enough
By the corporation
The hedge, almost neatly cropped
With Blackberries scattered throughout
The Hawthorn
Blackthorn and Hazel,
A little too red to pick
In early August,
It will be two more weeks
Before we bring a basket
For the harvest.
Dad erects a folding table
Mum unwraps a white cloth
We might be by the side of the road
But she has set a silver service.
She has her standards
These things need to be presented properly.
There are sandwiches
And cakes arranged around a three-tier stand
Coconut haystacks
Which I don’t like
Meat and potato pie, which I do.
Scones with fresh cream
And Viennese fancies,
How they differed from French fancies
I would have been happy with an Arctic Roll
Or better yet a Vienetta
However, the coolbox was always filled
With traditional English treats.
Smoked salmon was too expensive
And a little too exclusive
For a working family
With a little Austin A35
In Pea Green,
But head tennis with my brother
And gin rummy
Across the table
Is tickety-boo.
The A19 traffic trundles by,
Close enough to touch
Commer vans and Bedford trucks
Carry domestic product
Exotic import.
The Pickfords removal company
International carriers
With furniture from India,
A family of ex-pats
Returning home to Blighty
From a life spent believing
They were still too special to be ignored.
Pitching up to a Georgian house
In Richmond,
A little bit of a squeeze
The kitchen, a foreign experience
Without a servant,
Gazing out of the Bentley window
Sniffing at the common folk,
Taking tea and playing cards
Sitting by the roadside,
Of all things.
It is a far cry from the days of the raj.
I listen to the radio
Jammed-up close to my ear
As was the modern way,
Fluff Freeman on the BBC.
I never did like Jimmy Saville
The Beatles have three singles on the charts
And gave The Stones a freebie
For their first big hit
And I am dreaming of stardom
As mum offers orange squash.
But I only have eyes
For the daughter
Of the family that had just pulled over
In a cool red Rover
And were setting out their stall
With Pate, Smoked Salmon
Finger bowls and all
Things were looking up
Perhaps Sunday by the roadside
Would be a day to remember.