People say it’s a bad year for slugs. Even here in the cloud forest where it’s always bad, Chloe had to dig up all her new rhubarb to take them out of the roots.

I picked a hundred the other night, walking back from the toilet with a torch. I was hurling them across the stream but after a dozen or so there was so much slime they stuck to my fingers and got caught in the trees. A wad of tissue and two jugs of soapy scrubbing wasn’t enough, and Rob had to boil up more water to free me from ectoplasm.

Yoyo, Ruis and Mo were round one morning, building cork boats on the veranda. Hearing a kerfuffle, we found them transfixed by a ghastly display. An extreme sport slug was hanging from the roof on a four foot bungee of slime, twirl cavorting an extraordinary eye level dance. In the end it was me that got to snip the slime (he was hanging right in front of the door) and Ruis who caught the dancer on a stone and took him to safety up the field. The bungee snapped straight back, and is still coiled like a worm cast on the roof.

Joe and Hazel had to call out the dishwasher maintenance man. He was baffled by a bit of menchanism that normally never failed, and had to disassemble the machine. The culprit was a dessicated slug, slither jammed into the works.

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