My Sunday afternoon, one of those days in which everything seems to be perfect, the sort of day one imagines would repeat forever in an ideal summer. My stomach full of delicious food (strawberry rhubarb pie, pork pie made with an Old Mill Farm shoulder roast, lemon poppyseed cake, heavenly potato salad, cold roast chicken and asparagus, fresh garden salad, crunchy spring peas, crusty french bread with half melted brie). The air is filled with the smells of fresh hay and spring flowers. The laughter and conversation of friends drifts to me.
I am lying in a hammock, nestled in an old apple tree, blue sky overhead, green leaves trembling in the breeze. The gentle gurgle of bong rips* comes from the earth below me, and a stream ripples nearby, reflected light dancing from the perfectly green leaves of the apple tree. Resting on my engorged stomach is a Boont Amber Ale from a freshly tapped keg, frothy and cold. A drift of smoke passes through the leaves, turning my world foggy and grey for an instant before blowing away. A cat is perched awkwardly on my feet and she makes a murmur of protest when the hammock swings as I lean over to gesticulate, dripping beer on those below. The scent of roasting meat (ling cod and cornish game hens) wafts to on the gentle wind and I find myself drifting to sleep, lulled by the gentle sway of the hammock and the perfection of the day.
If I should die this very moment, I think, I’d be ok with it.
*Tobacco, of course, what sort of person do you take me for?