.The National Convention of Snails was held in my garden, this morning.
Effort eluded me.
I left them.
I’ve a cold.
Can’t be bothered to move.
Couldn’t catch a snail if I tried.
And snails - snails they can’t half leg it!
Under-rated as racers; snails are.
I pluck them from walls.
Detach them from gravel.
Tug them from leaves.
Lift them from the soil.
Then, while I’m pretending not to be frightened of slugs and I’m bending round the garden, bravely scooping them onto my trowel - while I’m doing that - half the snails have got out of the bucket and are careering back to finish their breakfasts.
Even on our way to the waste-ground - they keep clambering out.
Briefly, I let go of the jacket with the broken zip that I’m clutching round my chest (to conceal my nightwear) and knock them back in.
Then I go into my tipping and shaking and flinging routine, stopping now and then to say ‘Good Morning’ to dog-walkers.
Today - today I simply couldn’t do it.
I looked at the Sage instead and pretended it was Lavender.
If it were taller. If the flowers were smaller and more densely packed along the spike - and closer to blue than to purple. If the leaves were narrower; less mottled; smelled better and weren't hairy . If it were later in the year - they might be lavender.
Then I would like them.
* * * * *
Ming’s taken my runner beans to the allotment.
I’ve tried to say he should leave them till the ground has dried a little; get a head start with slug traps - put the plants in later.
He says there aren’t slugs on the allotment. Slugs prefer the next one along.
He’s says he’s invited Miss Martin’s chauffeur to supper next week.
(We may not be talking by then.)
There’s a blue-tit bouncing on the broom tree.
The Lilly of the Valley have started to grow.
The bean plants are growing tall.
They can’t stay in pots for ever.
(I’ve bidden them a fond farewell.)