Now here's the thing. For my daughter's first Christmas I wrote her a story about and charming little fellow called Cyril the Christmas Slug. But since then, I'm not so charitable about the dratted gastropods.
Why?
Because this is the year I've decided to grow my own fruit and veg and after a couple of days away doing Countryfiley things I've returned to find my lettuce, strawberries and broccoli laid waste by them.
The red mist fell and I remembered what the Deputy Editor of Gardeners' World told me when I revealed that I had been humanly gathering the slimy critters up to deposit away from the garden. 'If you've taken the trouble to pick them up,' she said matter-of-factly, 'then you might as well slice them in two with scissors. So I did. It felt better.
My new mantra is, the only good slug is a dead slug.
Does that make me evil? Will I be charged of war crimes in my garden?
All I know, when I just tucked into the rubarb crumble my wife made from the stuff I pulled up this morning, all I could think of was - ha, you didn't get these ones you little... well, you get my drift.
Woe betide the next slug I find in my raised bed. This time it's personal.
