Rarely have I wished so heartily as I did this morning to have been wearing my Wellingtons. As I walked the dog, gingerly stepping amidst the gauntlet of slugs that my street has become in the wake of last night’s gorgeous rain storm, flip flops just seemed incredibly inadequate.
The song of the morning as I whinge is the imagined voice (or at any rate the Stephen Fry rendition) of the little kid at the Quidditch World Cup campground saying to his mother, ‘You bust slug! You bust slug!’ Only, I, very fortunately, seem to have escaped that fate, though only just.
Good god, they are everywhere.
In the Mouth of the Lion 