The sun is shining and there is not a cloud in sight. We decide it is the perfect day for a picnic. My husband says he knows just the spot by the river where the children can paddle and play with their fishing nets. It sounds perfect.
We arrive and make our way through the first field, picnic basket in one hand, rug in the other while the children run ahead excitedly with the border terrorist. Into the second field, and my husband admits that it all looks a bit different from when he was last there – 10 years ago, he adds. The children are struggling with the long grass. In fact, we can barely see ‘The Baby’ as he toddles along behind us. The four-year-old begins to whine, “My legs hurt. I can’t walk anymore,” and we hear cries from ‘The Baby’ as he battles with the grass trying to avoid the numerous cow pats. My husband decides to dash ahead to survey different riverside picnic plots, determined to find the exact spot he has been to before. Finally, just as I realise we are standing in the midday sun and I have forgotten the sun tan lotion, he waves his arms from across the field and we march on for the final stretch.
The spot is indeed idyllic and the children race down to the river, while I lay out one of my renowned feeble picnics. A few bites into our cheese sandwiches and The Baby says, “Mooooo,” and points across the field to a herd of cows. “Clever boy,” we all chant. Our daughter says, “Why are the cows coming towards us?” We tell them that the cows are just interested in the dog. Suddenly, they break into a steady trot towards us and my husband jumps to his feet. The children begin screaming while he dashes forward protecting his family from a potential stampede with a plastic fishing net, shouting, “Shoo.” Realising they are unphased by this, he turns and shrieks, “RUN.” He tucks the rather alarmed baby under his arm and the children begin running across the field, much to the delight of the border terrorist who begins barking with excitement. Meanwhile, I ignore my husband and pack up the picnic, refusing to leave it in the middle of the field and submit to a herd of cows. Suddenly one of the cows becomes more confident and pushes its runny black nose towards me. With that, I start sprinting after my crazed family. I knew I shouldn’t have worn my flip-flops! We vault the stile and land in a heap the otherside. As we glance back, the cows are at the far side of the field standing around our picnic spot calmly grazing in peace no doubt utterly delighted that the deranged family have bolted.
