Saturday, 26 April 2014

Primrose's Most Perfect Picnic



It was a fine spring day much like any other. The birds busied themselves with nest building and a hundred tiny songs danced across clear skies, singing of twined grass and twig.Primrose smiled, as this was her very favourite kind of day, not a nasty cloud in sight to blemish her perfect blue. The spring flowers seemed to agree with her as they raised their golden faces upwards.
Sun warmed skin and the first sight of apple blossom naturally led to thoughts of picnics for Primrose, so out she pulled her dusty hamper. The lid creaked as she lifted it and a sleepy spider stretched it's legs and clambered over the wicker sides. "Urgh" thought Primrose, for she was far too polite to say it out loud. It must be said that Primrose was none too fond of those that crawl or slither, nor those that hide in dusty corners, nor, did she like dust!
The basket was soon upturned and a feather duster was put to good use whisking away cobwebs and the like, until the basket was spick and span at last. For a finishing touch, the old, rather tatty gingham ribbon was replaced with a lovely, new, bright yellow one which was dotted with the tiniest daisies you could ever hope to see.



Primrose, rather pleased with herself, hummed a merry tune as she cut the crusts off her egg and cress sandwiches and filled her flask with pink lemonade."Mustn't forget the blanket and a thin slice of lemon cake." She mused, because if there was one thing she disliked more than dust, it was getting dirt on her pretty frock.
And so, Primrose gently laid the neatly folded blanket on the top of her frugal Spring feast and tied the lid as tightly shut as she could manage, so that not even the tiniest ant could squeeze inside and off she set into the bright sunlit day.
Down the lanes she walked and up the hill behind the woods. From the very top of the hill she could see dazzling yellow fields stretching ahead of her, so excited was Primrose that she almost tripped over the corner of her picnic basket as she skipped down to meet them.



Just in case, in the very unlikely circumstance, of you, dear reader, not knowing about the joys of picnicking in fields of spun gold, I will explain to you exactly where Primrose laid her blanket. It may seem from the roadside that the fields in question are so tightly packed that there is no where to walk, much less picnic, but this assumption is wholly incorrect. For you see, the farmer must be able to cross his fields and check each flower to make sure that all is growing happily and so, hidden in those fields lie wide avenues made by the large knobbly wheels of the tractor, perfect for Spring picnics and honeyed wanders.



Primrose laid her blanket down and poured herself a cup of lemonade that tickled her tongue and made her giggle. Munching away on delicious sandwiches she gazed up at the canary coloured blooms way above her head, closing her eyes when a spring breeze rippled through the pale green stems and ruffled her hair. So thoroughly absorbed was Primrose in the flavour of the sticky-sweet lemon filling her cheeks that she barely noticed the low purr growing in the field behind her. The farmer was also distracted that day thinking of the fine pickles and chunk of cheese he would soon be feasting on and the little bump he felt wasn't enough to draw him out of his hungry day dream.



The Governessa did marvel when she found sweet Primrose for not only did she smell of the most exquisite sweet lemon cream, but she looked as delicate as a pressed wildflower, flat in the dirt...


3 comments:

Diana said...

A charming tale.... :)

JJ Beazley said...

You know, Mel, Stalin might have the high ground on numbers, but he doesn't have your imagination when it comes to the means of despatch.

Anthropomorphica said...

Thank you dear Diana!

Not so loud Mr B. or the worlds dictators will be clamouring to employ me.