Everyone together now:
There was carnage on the terrace last night. Many little dishes were put on the gravel floor and also placed in the worst-afflicted pots, near the chewed lilies. Beer was poured in. I wished the hidden snails bonne nuit and went to dinner in Williamsburg.
In the wee hours I prowled the terrace (this takes 3 seconds, end to end) again in the dark, with a flashlight. It was working. I could hear tiny sluggish drinking songs coming from far below, at the base of the pots. This morning I crept out and behold. The revellers had expired en masse.
A word to my sister-in-law, who at this moment is pursing her lips and saying, but isn't that photograph below..? Yes, it is: the fancy saucer of one of the beautiful cups you gave me for Christmas. I took good care of it, I did. I placed it softly on the gravel, poured the beer in softly and felt in my heart that the slugs and snails would approach softly and not stomp on it in their usual fashion. Your brother was disapproving. I could tell he was wondering what sort of person he had married. But I had run out of little dishes, and was desperate. A woman under siege develops tunnel vision.
A luta continua.