In the lockdown, I would often fantasise that one day, when it was all over, all the old friends I hadn’t met for so long and the new ones I’d made online, over shared recipes and writing challenges, would meet in one grand picnic. We would bring all the food we had posted pictures of and hug and eat and frolic in freedom, like Asterix and the village of Gauls celebrating victory over the Romans with a picnic dinner of wild boar.

School picnics were standard practice in my childhood. My parents, otherwise not much into parenting, took great interest in turning my picnic box into a miniature spread, a lucky dip of finger foods. It always included devilled eggs and tiny homemade mince patties and sandwiches, all foods that still occupy Enid Blyton status in my head.