Perhaps a couple of bottles. And a very small plate of summer sausage and sliced cheese. If one were not ill, that is.
I am here to tell you that it is not easy to maintain the somewhat delicate balance required to stay in a hammock when a flying toy breed skids to a landing on your stomach. The arms and legs tend to flail. The head snaps up to unsightly angles. Books fly. Shandy [if any were present] spills. Sausage and cheese [ditto] flies about. I am pleased to report that, even in my diminished state, I managed to remain in the hammock. With dog intact. I suspect that I could have had some form of a career as a circus act.
Despite being ill, I cherish my chance at a hammock afternoon. And the Epic gift of appreciation it brought to me. For a place to have a hammock. For the pretty sky and sunlight and trees. For a goofy little dog. But I will say this. If anyone sees me at the beach this summer [an unlikely event, I promise], those aren't four small paw tattoos on my stomach. They are just bruises.