Dear Mary: How do I ditch my slow-walking friend?
Q. I recently attended an opera on a friend’s estate in Kent. It was a multi-generational, non-ticketed, invitation-only event. The setting was idyllic, but as night drew in and my party looked around for some sort of food van, we realised we hadn’t read the small print on the invitation: ‘Bring your own picnic.’ It was at least a 20-minute drive to the nearest village, which would mean us missing the opening aria, and we looked on in dismay as the older generation produced checked tablecloths, platters of barbecued chicken, sausages, artisan bread and hummus. I hovered near a platter of chicken thighs and stared longingly at it. Its procurer,
