I recently found myself forced to endure a picnic. A first-world problem, to be sure. But at Glyndebourne (where I was going with friends to see Tosca, my favourite) there was no restaurant option. It was either picnic, or go hungry.

The posh-off with our neighbours had begun

The posh-off with our neighbours had begun

Four of our party of six arrived at the grounds, to meet our two highly organised and super-punctual friends.They had insisted (because they were driving) on bringing the bulk of the picnic. All the rest of us had to do was rock up with Tupperware containers of appetisers (plus booze) to add to the fine array arriving by car.

As we entered the covered picnic area, we were surprised to note that the table they had rented remained unoccupied. Meanwhile, all around us, against the backdrop soundscape of popping champagne corks, platters of delicious-looking food were being organised by toffs in penguin suits and flowing dresses.

Our bare table was a sorry sight. As were the four of us. We sat for an hour with no drinks, no ice, no glasses and no corkscrew. Where on earth were our absent friends? All we could do was make our way to the bar, past........

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