I had a wonderful lunch, came home to write, fell asleep and dreamed of giant snails. In the dream, they were as big as my fist, had grown little protrusions, and flew through the air, latching onto people's skin.
In one of my books I wrote back in 1992, The Frugal Gardener, I reprinted this poem, which I find even more appropriate now (sad to say).
I remember the time when the stable would yield,
Whatsoever was needed to fatten a field,
But chemistry now into tillage we lugs
And we drenches the earth with a parcel of drugs.
All we poisons, I hope, is the slugs.
--from Punch, 1846. Quoted in the Journal of Soil Association, 1956.
Happy trails from snail land!