Somewhere in Britain right now, someone is looking out of a window at a sky that can't quite decide what it wants to do, thinking: maybe next week. Maybe next week I'll finally do the picnic. Maybe when it's warmer. Maybe when I've got the right basket. Maybe when the children are less feral, the grass isn't damp, and I've found a recipe that isn't just a sad bag of crisps and apology.

Here is what I want to say to that person, very gently, with deep affection: stop waiting.

Picnics are a charmingly simple pleasure, yet they come with their own unwritten rulebook, one that ensures everyone enjoys the occasion, rather than dashing back to the car as soon as the ants arrive.

Picnics are a charmingly simple pleasure, yet they come with their own unwritten rulebook, one that ensures everyone enjoys the occasion, rather than dashing back to the car as soon as the ants arrive.