by Ann C Evans

Created on: May 21, 2009   Last Updated: October 26, 2009

Although I've been a gardener for many years, I still can't find myself being endeared to worms and slugs; in fact I think I have a phobia about them. I know worms aerate the soil and do a lot of good to the compost heap but I think my fear stems back to my childhood years when my brother use to chase me around with a wriggling worm dangling from his fingers. I just can't bare looking at them never mind touching the things. As for slugs, I think they are even more abhorrent; their appearance alone is disgusting with their two front antennae, their yucky coloring and that's even without the slimy trails they leave in their wake; furthermore the damage they do to my hosta plants makes me furious. It doesn't matter how I get rid of these ugly creatures, whether it be in the garbage bin with the lid firmly shut down or dare I say it, chucked over the hedge into next door's garden, they will still manage to find their way back to my prize collection of hosta's which form the center piece of my patio.

Having a fairly large garden, at least by modern standards, I have to do a fair amount of regular gardening to keep on top of things; if the weather is fine I tend to linger longer on the weeding. It was on one such fine day, having spent two back-breaking hours weeding, I decided to go back into the house for some refreshments. Kicking my stout, Velcro- fastening trainers off in the porch, I tiptoed bare footed across the kitchen floor, making a beeline for the kettle.

'What on earth is that on your foot?' exclaimed my husband. Thinking it was another one of his pranks, even though it wasn't April Fools' Day, I took no notice of him.

'Be it on your own head then', he laughed. With that I glanced down at my feet and saw to my dismay a huge mass of bright orange gung clinging to the toes on my right foot. It is as though I had stuck my big toe into a large pot of apricot jam. Instinctively I reached for the paper towels but try as I may I couldn't wipe away the horrid mess. I ended up sticking my foot into a bucket of hot soapy water.

I was puzzled as to where this gung had come from when it suddenly occurred to me to turn my garden shoes upside down and to give them a good shake. To my upmost horror a big orange, fat juicy slug flew out and rolled across the floor. For a moment I froze and then inevitably, let out the delayed shriek.

'Good God women!' berated my husband as he surveyed the scene 'anyone would think you'd been butchered. Is that all it is, a slug'.

'What do you mean, is that all it is' I cried, 'I've just spent the past two hours gardening with my toes squashed up against this big, loathsome brute of a slug oozing its innards out all over my foot.'

'So perhaps you'll wear socks next time you do the gardening' he retorted. 'Anyway I expect the thing's only getting its own back on you, after being chucked remorselessly in the bin.'

I still shudder even today whenever I think about the whole episode. My only consolation is that my three grandchildren glean so much pleasure from it when I tell the tale. They make me repeat it to them over and over again, the story of 'Granma's Orange Toes'. I suspect that the whole of their school knows about it by now.

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