The year of the slug

This must be the year of the slug.  With the bountiful showers - for which I am giving thanks - come slugs and snails.  Shameless snails are abroad in broad daylight consuming my broad beans.  They hang like blobby marbles on the underside of the leaves a foot in the air.  A foot like a suction pad keeps them there. 

Slugs and snails ate my kale.  Now all I have is a few skeletal ribs.  Slugs slide up the panes of my greenhouse and snack on aubergine and coriander.  Snails are eating my cabbage, and even my hardy winter squash (which comes from Peterborough) has not escaped.

Snails sneaked their way into the shed.  They sought cellulose and found it.  My wall calendar was hanging there with picture perfect photos of cottage gardens.  I bet all their snails are floating drunk in beer traps, foaming to cruel death with blue pellets, scaling pots of hostas whilst trying to navigate little piles of eggshells.  They are certainly not eating their way through the months of June, July and August. 

Time like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away wrote the hymnwriter.

Time consumes at a snail's pace.