I had a plastic bag with sandwiches and juice cartons for the children, a Tupperware box of rice salad for me and a bag of crisps for the three of us to share.

Jake and Rafia were a little more sophisticated, with a cool box for their food and plastic plates and cups.

My parents, though, were in a superior picnic league altogether.

They joined us in Brighton's Stanmer Park for the kite festival last weekend and caused quite a sensation with their mobile dining equipment.

First out of my dad's car boot came a picnic rug, followed by two picnic chairs, a folding picnic table, a pretty set of unbreakable picnic crockery, a sunshade, a cool box containing a feast of home-made goodies and a cool bag heavy with a bottle of Chablis.

"Er....it's not Glyndebourne," I said to my dad, feeling a little embarrassed in front of my friends as he and my mum staked out their 6ft square patch of the park and settled themselves among their furniture.

"In that case, I'll leave the candelabra in the car," he said, teasingly.

You can tell my parents are true townies. They're only comfortable in the countryside if they can make look it suburban.

They're not the sort who would have a picnic in a lay-by or a car park but they obviously wouldn't be able to hike across fields with chairs, a picnic table, an umbrella, a cool box and a large rug.

In fact, I have never known them to hike across fields under any circumstances.

They don't like to stray too far from the sound of traffic.

I have often mocked them for their townie ways which is mean, I know, since I am also a born and bred Londoner and have only grown to love the countryside since moving to Sussex 17 years ago.

Even now I'm not fond of things crawling up my legs or pitch black nights.

But I do like to feel at one with nature whenever the opportunity arises, hence my informal approach to picnicking.

As my parents sat regally in their chairs, surveying the scene and sipping their wine, the rest of our little gathering grubbed around on rugs, knocking over drinks and losing celery sticks in the grass, flicking ants off bread rolls and then fishing the same insects out of the pot of houmous.

We were also baking in the July heat but we couldn't get anywhere near their umbrella. For once in my life, I would have been grateful to have been in my parents' shadow.

"This is splendid," said my dad, trying to hold on to his newspaper which clearly wanted to join the kites in the sky with every gust of wind.

Having eaten and drunk their fill, my parents then snoozed comfortably in their canvas chairs.

"You're not a bit like them," said Jake quietly to me.

"Should I take that as a compliment?" I whispered back.

"Not sure," he pondered.

"I mean, look at the meagre lunch you brought with you.

"And look at how prepared they were. It's something for us all to aspire to."

"Don't you think it's all a little, well, suburban?"

"Nothing wrong with that," said Jake.

"What I wouldn't give right now to be having a nap in one of those comfy chairs in the shade of that umbrella."