Slugs 'n' Snails 'n' Slow Worm Tails

Allotment day. The mists hang heavy across the land; the air hangs humid with er, humidity. We need to get the rest of the potatoes in and move the storage bin before the arrival of the polytunnel. Optimistically, I thought I'd take some seeds to plant (beetroot - red and yellow- carrots, spinach, spring onion and kale) but one look at the old compost heap that rose like a citadel and was in need of flattening tells me seed planting will have to wait.

We march our plot and check the crops. The Jerusalem artichokes are sprouting, the raspberries are putting on much leafage. And the gooseberries have gone from sad little twigs to lush bushes with a hint of tiny flowers appearing. The first potatoes we planted are poking foliage above the ground and need earthing up. The onions are shooting green javelins toward the sky and the shallots resemble the hairstyles of Ernie and Bert from Sesame Street. I pull some rhubarb from last year's plant which is going wild with growth now I've removed the flowers. We allocate tasks. Andy to plant potatoes and clear away old brassicas, me to dig over the old compost heap and level it with rest of plot ready for planting. Andy to move storage bin to other end of plot, me to help him if it looks like he might collapse mid-move.

All is quiet, all is calm as we start work. Then...

'OMIGOD!!!!' yells Andy.
'WHAT?' I yell.
'SNAILS!' yells Andy back. And he's right. In lifting the wooden pallet the storage bin has been standing on, he has revealed a colony of about three hundred snails. Tall ones, short ones, some as big as your head.
'We'll take them back for the chickens,' I declare, throwing snails enthusiatically into a box.

Back to work. Then...

'EEEEEK!'
That was me.
'WHAT?' yells Andy.
'SNAKE!' I yell back. Actually, it's a slow worm. A BIG slow worm. Now, slow worms are a protected species and you aren't supposed to disturb them. However, I have inadvertently disturbed this one by flinging it across the diameter of the compost heap during my vigorous digging efforts. So I rescue it and relocate it to the new compost heap. I just hope the slow-worm police don't come after me for this transgression. Nor for the second one when I discover its mate in a similar fashion.

During the digging, I suffer my first two insect bites of the season. That'll be me itching and puffy for a week now. Still, I'm better off than the insect that bit me. That's dead.

After three hours we decide to go home. The snails in the box have made several attempts to escape. It's like they know what their fate is to be. Psychic snails.

At home, we take the box of snails into Cluckinghen Palace and place it reverently on the ground, waiting for the hens to launch themselves enthusiatically at this heaving pile of fresh protein.

'What's that?' asks Poo, suspiciously.
'Slugs with houses,' says Miggins. 'I've seen 'em before. They're a bugger to eat.'
'Well, I'm going to give them a go,' says Slocombe, 'because you know how hard it is for me to assimilate protein and I need all I can get.'

Mrs Slocombe selects possibly the tiniest snail from the box. She spends at least five minutes swinging it around by its head, bashing it against wood chippings, small stones and other chickens. In fact, all four of the hens race each other around the play area in pursuit of cracking open this one tiny snail. Behind them, the other 99 snails we've brought home are making fast their escape. Andy is sitting on the swing bench laughing like a loon at our idiot hens.

I want to get a hammer and smash the snail shells open for the chickens so they can have easier access.

'NO!' yell Andy and Heather in unison. 'That's cruel!'

I have no idea when my husband and daughter became members of the Snail Preservation Society. I mean, I haven't seen them wearing badges or anything. But it's 2 against 1 so I may have to wait until nightfall before I sneak out into the garden with my hammer...