A sluggish reaction

When it comes to unwanted visitors, my mother is one of the 22 percent. She's part of a sizeable group of people with a zero-tolerance approach to trespass. I don't agree with her perspective, even though I know she intends no harm. She simply wants to protect what she has from those that seek to destroy it. And if they venture too close to her... well, she'll throw them over the fence.

Yes, mum's a snail chucker. According to a recent Royal Horticultural Society survey, 22% of people questioned had thrown snails out of their gardens. In mum's case, they're not piling up in the neighbour's pond or landing on their conservatory roof but are arriving on some wasteland at the edge of the South Downs. This is a compromise I'm prepared to accept. Murderous slug pellets are not for her, nor the extraordinarily cruel salt cellar. As a result, I reckon her lettuce can still be described as ethically sound. Assuming, of course, you can find any lettuce that hasn’t been nibbled off at the root.

Here in Ringmer, I'm resigned to the presence of snails. In fact, I'm rather fond of them. Apparently they're keen on our shady flower beds. Because of this, delicate plants are kept in pots. Robust, foul-tasting shrubs are planted in our garden. Going outside on a damp evening requires either a torch or walking on tiptoes. When it's dark, I totter down the path like an untutored ballerina.

Unlike me, mum's not entirely happy with her snail situation. She's convinced that some of her expelled visitors are returning, albeit a little more tatty around the edges than when they left. I think she's probably right. A few years ago, an amateur researcher discovered that snails have a strong homing instinct. If moved thirty feet from their home, they could easily find their way back. Some could manage 100 yards without too much of a problem. Well, unless they were in a hurry.

I can see two solutions for mum. One involves treating those garden snails as the French might, served in garlic butter and accompanied by some of the salad they favour. Unpalatable in every sense, as far as I’m concerned. The other solution would require a catapult, which doesn’t seem a great deal better. Actually, I suppose there's a third option. Perhaps I should open a snail sanctuary.

First published on Viva Lewes 24th April 2014: www.vivalewes.com

 

It’s all in the mind

The border into West Sussex has been left unguarded, so I slip across to see mum. I’m starting to look out for any signs that her brain isn’t as sharp as it once was. Not that she’s given me any immediate cause for concern; it’s just that some of her contemporaries are suffering from assorted memory-related conditions. But how can I check whether she has an active mind?

When I arrive at mum’s house, I knock at the back door and walk in. I call out “hello”. She replies “I’m busy threading a needle with invisible cotton.” Oh dear. Is this an early sign? Is she preparing to make a new suit for the emperor? I breathe a sign of relief when I see the reel of transparent thread. She’s not lost the plot, she’s repairing some clothing.

I shouldn’t really worry. Mum’s not shown any signs of slowing down. Certainly not when she’s in the car, anyway. If you’re in anything less powerful than a Bugatti Veyron, she’ll leave you standing at the traffic lights. All this in a curiously tall vehicle that’s powered by a modified hairdryer.

But the real reassurance comes when we start talking. Mum’s been watching television coverage of Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge visiting New Zealand. More specifically, she’s been watching young Prince George. She’s been suitably entertained, which is exactly as it should be. Apparently the Royal Family costs each of us 57p a year to maintain, so mum’s getting good value for money. One of her friends, however, has been critical. As a result, mum isn’t happy.

“She said little George should have been wrapped up warm when he came off that plane”, reports mum. “And he should have been wearing a hat to protect him from the sun.” The inconsistency has annoyed her as much as the denigration of Kate’s parenting skills.

There is, however, worse to come. “She’s been going on about that gay marriage, too. She says it means that brothers and sisters could end up marrying each other.” I struggle to make any sense of this statement. Fortunately mum’s been given an explanation. “She said gay couples could adopt children without knowing their backgrounds, so they could be brother and sister without realising, and then those children might get married.” Mum wasn’t having any of this nonsense. “I told them it was rubbish. Anyway, that Elton John and his partner have adopted two boys, so that couldn’t happen to them.”

“You should tell her it could now, mum. Now that the law’s changed. Two men can get married.” Mum smiles. It’s not a benign parental smile. It’s the smile of a mother who’s looking to cause trouble when she sees her friend again. Is it possible to have a mind that’s too active?

First published on Viva Lewes 10th April 2014: www.vivalewes.com