Is it news to say the rain came down again on us in London?
As I was sloshing home on the slippery stones of the churchyard where my parents are interred I saw the snails out in force.
Once home and telling of my sightings hubs told me I should gather them, feed them on cornmeal and then eat them with garlicky butter. Not for me thank you!
I watched as the four of them blazed slimy trails in ways only snails know how.
Their movements are almost imperceptible, I wonder they leave the sanctuary of the tall grass for the open space of a paved pathway heavily trodden by the likes of me. But then tall grasses can have their perils too, shears, lawn mower or worm seeking blackbird.
All lives are fragile.