Eulogy for a slug

Today is a day of mourning.

I feel guilt-ridden and wretched, and more than a little repulsed. In what shall be known as a slug of war: man v beast, I have unwittingly emerged the victor. All that remains of my unknowing adversary is a pathetic, moistly flaccid, slime splatter, gently oozing silvery phlegm and orange insides. Any buddhist aspirations go to the grave along with the poor little soul lured in by the damp and cold that is our pantry. Let us hope it will be happy in it's place of rest. Though I don't know how happy the rest of us will be with it hardening accusingly, fusing to the floor, every time we go and get some potatoes.

The least I can do is document it's last moments, immortalised in blog form. I think it would have appreciated that.

As I once again embarked on my tireless quest of consuming late-night confectionary during the advert break of Poirot (thereby giving me 3mins 27 secs to successfully brew up a mug of tea, retrieve box of marshmallowy goodness, and make it back to anna-imprinted sofa comfort before the bulging Belgian revealed all) my blood ran cold. Wetness seeped through sock and my heart sunk. In my haste to return to discover which extravagantly dressed dastardly member of the bourgoisie had plunged the knife into the victim, I myself had committed a murder. Thank goodness I was not barefoot. After having squelched the limp thing enough to cause it trauma and severe pain yet not enough to quite finish it off, it was flung from the underside of my foot in revolted panic, soppily thwacking on the cold, hard floor where it would end it's days. Not hesitating to see if it was alive or dead, the heartless murderess that I am ashamed to be dubbed proceeded to cause a bit of a commotion, mostly comprising of such bewails as 'EEEUUUUWWW!!'
Having got rid of the incriminating evidence (the slimy sock which was ripped from my foot immediately and unceremoniously chucked in washing basket), N came running down to see what drama had played out to cause such uproar. I replied nonchalantly that it was merely that an unfortunate slug had departed this world for the next. Then, once N was rectified and back in bed, I once again advanced on the wailing. Well it was quite unpleasant after all.

After the trauma of this episode I was verging on feeling myself once more when I ventured into the pantry this morning and in the cold light of day the slug corpse looked even more forlorn. The horror of the previous night came flooding back. I foresee this occurring every time supplies are needed from that fateful room. And so it should, the guilt felt being all I can offer that poor little defenceless creature. Which now looks like a congealed snot.

And all because the lady loves Tunnocks teacakes.