After a few glasses of wine, I become a murderer
I got a bit drunk last night. After I’d stumbled in, rolled around on the floor with the pets and put my pyjamas on, I made the odd decision to go into the garden and check on my plants.
I do this most nights, but I’m normally a) dressed and b) sober. On a normal night, I would spot the snails slowly schlurping their way towards the flower bed, on their journey to destroy the plants that I have lovingly nurtured since they were just tiny little seeds, killing them senselessly just to fill their slimy bellies.
When dressed and sober, I usually pick up the snails and throw them over the hedge onto the fields at the back of my house. I get rid of the snails, and they get a nice soft landing onto undergrowth that they can munch their way through until they’re too fat to fit their shells. Everyone’s happy.
However, with about a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc inside me, I wasn’t feeling so kind. When you get out there really late at night, there aren’t just one or two snails – there are squillions of the buggers sliding their way towards a midnight feast. And not just snails either. Slugs. Thousands of slugs. Thin ones, fat ones, brown ones, black ones, all intent on causing bedlam in the borders.
I got the torch out. It was bad. I was cross. It was war. I was inspired.
Salt. Slugs don’t like salt. I was straight in the kitchen, frantically filling up the grinder with the best Maldon sea salt.
Then I was ready to attack. I ran through the garden, the pyjama'd pest controller, grinding salt on every slimy thing I could spot. And it worked – the slimies stopped sliming. As each grain of salt made contact with their bodies, their slippery skin bubbled and fizzed like sherbert. Only the revenge was sweeter than any sugar-based confectionary. I could almost hear them squealing: "I'm melting, I'm melting".
This morning it was carnage. In the dawn sunlight, the path was covered in half-melted slugs, slime worthy of Saturday morning kids TV oozing out of thier insides. I felt bad. Really, really bad.
It’s only a matter of time until the dog ends up in the microwave and I’m whizzing up a post-pub snack of cat and Branston sandwiches.
And I’m a… gulp… vegetarian.