shall i finish telling you about the picnic, and the tart, from before?

it’s just that, if a group of people goes into a kebab shop to pick up some supplies for a picnic, you might imagine that there may be a platter of meats shaved off the great revolving thing behind the counter, if not from the special grill set up by the door, with those kebabs that are minced lamb moulded onto a mean skewer, or chunks of marinated meat and onions; several tubs of salads and dips; maybe a handful of falafel; and a fat bundle of bread — maybe even a couple of those tasty-looking ones drizzled with oil and za’atar — for everyone to share.

instead, there was an unspoken consensus that each mini-group within the entourage would cater for itself. hence, boy’s olds bought themselves a doner kebab plate, boy’s sister bought herself a doner kebab plate and a bag of chips for her son, boy’s other sister bought herself a vegetarian pide and a can of coke zero, and boy tried to buy us and the kid a chicken kebab plate and a falafel plate but the shopgirl misheard and made us roll-ups.

thusly laden, we bundled ourselves back into our cars and drove to the botanic gardens, but waiting in line with our picnic, we saw the sign on the gatehouse telling us to stay on the path at all times, which is just not condusive to picnicking, now is it?

no.

we ended up at the picnic tables a short hike away, close to where some kids were playing with a heavy metal chain hanging off a tree branch. i suppose it used to be some sort of swing, but now, without a seat, it was just a braining waiting to happen, flung about as it was with glee and stupidity.

but we got through the meats without incident, and then there was baklava on the table, and the custard eclairs, and well, the plum tart had been there from the start. “this baklava is so fresh,” someone said, lips glistening with sugar syrup. “the chocolate on this eclair is really good quality,” someone said. (it was!) “it’s a pity we didn’t think to bring any tea,” someone said, “because it would be very nice to have with your tart.”

and then, with the tart still pristine, someone said, “i couldn’t eat another thing.” and reached for another piece of baklava.

so the tart went back into the car as we walked round the garden, and after the garden, no-one wanted tart still. well, i wanted tart, but no-one else did. i asked the boy if we should cut the tart up and give some to his family to take home. i mean, i had made it to share with them, but it seemed that these were people who did not want tart. could i force it upon them? was it more polite to leave them with tart or without? in the end, the boy cut a portion of tart that was uncomfortably just short of half, whacked it on a paper plate and saw it unceremoniously into his mother’s arms.

when i got home and finally had a piece of my plum tart with a cup of tea, i j’regretted that i had brought it along to that shamster picnic. i should have kept it all for myself. it was fantastic.