The Moon Goes on a Picnic

Barnaby was a silver, crater-speckled sphere who had spent four billion years watching everyone else eat sandwiches. Every night from up in orbit, he gazed down at the grassy parks of Yorkshire and Hampshire. Humans spread out red chequered blankets, devoured cheese-and-pickle rolls, and munched crumbly digestives. Barnaby had nothing to eat except an occasional mouthful of passing space dust, which tasted remarkably like chalk. "I am taking a personal holiday," Barnaby announced to a wandering satellite named Arthur. Arthur blinked his solar panels in alarm. "Orbits are strictly organised, Barnaby. If you drop out of the sky, tides will slosh into towns and astronomers will lose their spectacles." "Nonsense," Barnaby hummed, tugging a long strand of woven silver starlight from behind his dark side. "I will tether myself to an iron lamppost so I do not float off. One hour on the grass cannot hurt." He hitched the woven starlight around the moon's south pole, packed an antique wicker basket full of sparkling moon-ice, and drifted down through the chilly clouds. He landed with a soft thump on the crest of Parliament Hill in London, right beside a deserted park bench. The autumn air was crisp, hovering around nine degrees Celsius, and smelling of damp oak leaves and rain-soaked earth. Down below, the city spread out like a tangled carpet of glowing amber beads. Barnaby laid out a velvet blanket and emptied his hamper. He had collected frozen space-dew, star-sugar crystals, and a flask of comet water that bubbled with fizzing blue sparks. He was just about to crunch his first crystal when he heard a suspicious rustle. Out from beneath a bramble bush stepped a russet fox wearing a rather battered velvet bow tie. The creature had a sharp black nose and an expression of profound curiosity. "Good evening," said the fox, sniffing the air cautiously. "My name is Barnaby," the moon replied, gleaming politely. "I am having a picnic." "A picnic with no savoury pastry is an outrage," the fox declared, sitting on his haunches. "I am Barnaby Fox, by the way. I patrol this hill every night. Your glowing pebbles look remarkably pretty, but they will give you a terrible stomach ache." "I have never tasted Earth food," Barnaby admitted, blushing a gentle pearl colour. "Would you care to swap?" The fox dashed behind a bench and returned carrying a greasy brown paper bag. Inside was half a cold Cornish pasty, salvaged from an overturned rubbish bin, and two ginger biscuits wrapped in foil. Barnaby hesitated. To him, the pasty looked like a wrinkled brown rock. To the fox, the star-sugar looked like sharp bits of quartz. For two long minutes, neither moved. Barnaby Fox twitched his whiskers, suspecting a trap. Barnaby the Moon hovered an inch off the grass, wondering if pastry might pop him like a soap bubble. Finally, the fox took the first gamble. He reached out a velvet paw, scooped up a pinch of starlight sugar, and licked it clean. His golden eyes went wide with delight. "It tastes of frozen winter mornings and honeycomb!" Encouraged, Barnaby the Moon pinched off a crumb of the ginger biscuit. The spicy warmth bloomed inside his craters. "It tastes like sunrise on a chimney," he murmured in awe. He had spent centuries assuming picnic blankets were just flat cloth, but now he understood they were magical platforms for sharing. Suddenly, the starlight tether groaned. Barnaby felt a tug. High above, the tides in the Thames were beginning to swirl backwards. It was time to go back to duty. Barnaby Fox bowed, carrying away his stash of sweet space-ice. Barnaby the Moon reeled himself back up into the velvety black night, perfectly on time. If you could pack a picnic hamper for an unexpected visitor from space, what delicious Earth treats would you put inside? <long pause>