I, like Caesar before me, walked out into the ruins of what was, but yesterday evening, a garden in the full pomp of June flowering. On surveying the flattened, flowerless, green mayhem Caesar would have addressed his trembling gardeners in that unnerving timbre of voice that is reserved for the insane and powerful that walk amongst us :
” What in the fuck has happened to my garden?”
and they would have replied as one:
I, unlike Caesar, did not have the benefit of having in my employ a group of gardeners to execute in a hideous way for spoiling my morning. It’s unfair, but pleasures like that can only be enjoyed by insane tyrants. This snail, however, is delighted by the bounty that has fallen unexpectedly from the heavens, thus saving him an arduous slime up the tree. I shall have to dig deep into those chicken entrails to work out my next move, but it already looks like like brooms, shovels and wheelbarrows will cross my path.