For a brief period today (about five minutes, actually), I got well and truly smitten by the gardening bug. First call, last year's newly-erected wall greenhouse. I intend to prick out and pot up the tomato and annual flower seedlings. Except they were no more. A series of seedling stumps, reminiscent of the petrified forest greeted me. It seems that despite the fact that the greenhouse is attached to a smooth brick wall and is standing on a stone patio, snails or slugs have managed to infiltrate.
Well, I got mad. Most gardeners get disheartened by snail and slug pests. I face total humiliation. In a few weeks' time, we've been asked to 'open'' our garden as part of a village-wide, raise-money-for-the-church community initiative. And at this rate, people will pay £2 for the privilege of viewing a weed-infested, flower-devoid alley.
So time to get tough. But it's a dilemma. I can't put down slug poison, because we have managed to persuade a song-thrush to visit the garden regularly. Nor can I sink a slug-pub in the greenhouse floor or envelope it in copper tape.
So I resorted to 'hunt and destroy' plan B. Except I don't like squashing them. So I resorted to Plan C.
"Clear off, slimeball!" I yelled, hurling a slug and two snails over the hedge. And as I gleefully watched their maiden flight take the form of a splendid arc over the boundary, I realised to my horror that my neighbour had chosen this one morning to venture into her bindweed-infested jungle to take breakfast au soleil. A breakfast in which escargots had made a belated appearance on the menu.
I slunk inside, and it will be a few days before I dare attempt any more gardening. Just in case she is lying in wait with the pudding course.
