Picnic in the Square

What could be nicer than a picnic in an idyllic French village? We sat down at the end of a long wooden table in the village square. The locals were warm and friendly. Stalls sold local produce and an increasing numbers of families arrived to enjoy what was fast becoming a communal lunch.

The picnic I’d hastily thrown together that morning was unimaginative. We livened it up with some fresh pastries from the stalls but all knew that our lunch was shabby in comparison to what other families were tucking into.

On reflection, remaining at what was fast becoming a food festival was probably a mistake. So bowled over were we by the occasion and atmosphere, we forgot what type of family ours was. Josh’s limited capacity for socialising, the midday sun and the scent of food were a recipe for disaster.

A French family came and sat next to us. Our soggy sandwiches seemed even less appealing now that their bottomless cool box had arrived, filled with delights which left my children faint with admiration. Josh was mesmerised.

Symptomatic of Angelman’s, Joshua constantly dribbled and always had a wet chin and mouth. On this occasion he drooled. Copiously. Every mouthful the neighbouring family took and every item they brought out of their box made him salivate more; drool ran down his chin and onto his clothes. The sandwich that he’d just eaten, coupled with a chocolate bar, gave his saliva a brown hue. For those who’d not yet shared a meal with Josh – and for some who had – this was somewhat off putting. However, our new neighbours seemed unperturbed. I relaxed.

Never lower your guard is a mantra that should be adopted by parents of children with Angelman’s Syndrome. Olli and Sam began to argue and Andy and I both turned our attention to them. Meanwhile, Joshua shuffled closer to the family next door and reached his hand into their cool box with characteristic speed. We turned back to see our 8 year old chewing on a chicken leg and a couple of cakes.

My memory plays back in slow motion. Andy’s arm reaching out to stop Josh from taking any more food….Josh’s screams of objection filling the afternoon air….cake and chicken spluttering from his mouth and splattering the table and our neighbours…. faces frozen in horror. We had become actors on a stage and the village was the audience.

Whilst Andy struggled to get Josh into his buggy, one final attempt for food was made and drinks were knocked over the whole family. Oblivious to it all, Olli continued to tell us what Samuel had done wrong whilst Samuel, at 18 months, didn’t care less. We exited.

I still remember the mother’s face. It’s fixed in my mind, just as it remained fixed as we left the once peaceful French square. As I recount this, I wonder whether there is a French family who tell the story of that communal lunch. Remembering the mad English family and the son who pinched their picnic one summer’s day.