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COPYRIGHT 2005 The Spectator Ltd. (UK)
The picnic knife I carry in my hand-bag came from Seville. It has a smooth, polished olive-wood handle, a built-in corkscrew and the kind of blade that would give airport security something to get truly alarmed about: a curving, rock-steady lump of steel with a terrifying point. But in fact the most mischief I ever cause with my knife is to whip it out halfway up a hillside and lop the end off a saucisson sec that has been tied to my belt. That done, out of my pocket comes the bread which, with another swipe from the knife, is ready for the dry cured sausage. And there you have an almost perfect picnic.
Picnics, of course, come in other, more impressive guises. We are in the grand picnic season right now, when families pack the entire contents of the sideboard into the back of the car and...
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