I have decided.
I am almost definitely royalty.
I’ve been considering the possibility for a while, but recent occurrences, along with your comments yesterday, have persuaded me.
So, from this day forward I wish to be addressed as Queen Jo Beaufoix, High Empress and Madame Monarch of the Molluscs, Sovereign of the Slime, Guarder of the Gastropods, Regent of the Reticulatums.
It seems something about my personage is attractive to the disgusting slimey fiends, so I might as well get something out of it right?
So, this is my plan.
I will issue a proclamation declaring my demands in return for the use of my kitchen as a, erm, slug meeting place. It will read thus…
On entry to Chez Queen Beaufoix all none shell wearing small, legless icky creatures must:-
1. Pay £4.27 for the pleasure of leaving sticky residue on my floor.
2. Avert their eyes and antennae when I enter the room.
3. Cover their pneumostomes with a pink tutu, a pair of polka dot pantaloons or a ham sandwich whenever my children are around.
4. Not sing anything by Glenn Medeiros, Chris De burgh or Mr Blobby, ever. That’s, EVER.
I think that will do nicely.
Oh, and apparently, during research inspired by the gorgeous Karisma I have discovered that “To dream that slugs are coming frm inside your body, suggests that you are having difficulties expressing some aspect of your emotion. Consider where in your body are the slugs coming out from.”
Isn’t that a lovey thought?
Frankly I’d rather have the real things in my kitchen rather than inside my head and coming out of my, well, anywhere really.