In the summer of my dreams™...a carefree place...where it's possible to cycle in a skirt without flashing the local populace...remain sweat, I mean perspiration, free on even the hottest days...and take your time over an ice cream cone, undisturbed by paranoia over where its drippy residue will end up...the most perfect days usually include a lavish little picnic, packed into a "proper" wicker basket.

Then reality...and reminiscences...intrude. The picnics of my teens...at which my mother felt that outdoor dining could not be fully enjoyed unless most of the kitchen and dining room had been crammed into a suitcase-sized basket...and lugged half way across a field by her off-spring (i.e., yours truly). Try as I might to enjoy the fireworks...classical music...or jugglers...that were at the end of such rambles it was difficult to remain aloof to the fact that the *$%*@# basket had to be carried back to the car at the end of it (lightened by food, it's true, but still containing enough pointless impedimenta to tax the muscles).

Perhaps a better idea would be to pay homage to the concept of the SomD™...by dint of the indoor picnic. Air conditioning...easy access to fridge and pantry for chilled white wine or the odds and sods that invariably get left behind when one ventures into the wilderness...an homage to the pic-k-er-nic basket courtesy of wicker lampshades...heck, if I had a bigger apartment I'd be tempted to try indoor cycling.