We would never want to appear… ungrateful.
But we need to have a very honest conversation about picnics.
As a very locked-down New South Wales approached six million vaccine doses, Premier Gladys Berejiklian promised us a treat. We spent at least a full week communicating with each other via guesses:
Us: U THINK IT'LL BE HAIR CUTS OR NA?
Stranger: NA I RECKON BUNNINGS SAUSAGE SIZZLE.
Us: Fkn hope so.
Ultimately, Gladys announced her present for the fully vaccinated: picnics, with up to five people (not including kids).
How lovely. Friends and family and snacks and alcohol and dogs and children and social interaction. We shed a tear for our regrowth - the real victim here - and pictured tipsy, sunny afternoons with fresh humans. Except there's one small problem.
Picnics aren't lovely.
Picnics are hell.
And it's taken this bizarre moment in history, where we're only allowed picnics, for us to remember.
As one colleague described her picnic last weekend, "it was like being at an awful festival. It rained, the toilets were gross and full of rubbish, and there were literally grown adults so drunk they were throwing up everywhere."