We settle in 1950's metal chairs around small green tables scattered with a wild meadow of china crockery. Sighs of bliss curl on our lips.
One or two swipes at the air should have sent us inside but we decide to savour this sunny day.
China pots adorned with red roses arrive, followed by three tiers of meadow china smothered in sandwiches, huge scones and slices of sponge cake. Pots overflow with dollop like clotted cream and strawberry jam we can cut with a knife.
The first wasp is swatted away with the swing of a hand, another surrenders at the flap of a white handkerchief.
But they return with a Pail of friends. We cover cakes, snap lids on jam pots, start the swat flap dance with our hands. We munch, chat, swat, munch, chat, swat.
The swats are a sign to the wasps to fetch relatives; so cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles and aunts arrive for tea.
We place a sugar cube on a table behind hoping the family will join that party instead.
But sugar smell spreads like butter and a swarm of others arrive. We abandon half eaten cakes to their mercy, pay the bill and wave good bye to my afternoon birthday tea.