Snail painting: a deadly pastime

 I would like to say no snails were hurt in the making of this article, unfortunately that was not the case.

Gary was a glorious beacon, a fashion forward snail of new heights. I had never seen such a splendid shell, adorned with flowers and colours that even the most stunning human could not wear, but Gary…he was something else. I had bought a painting set from Poundland prior to meeting Gary and the urge to use it came upon me suddenly and I knew that my backyard (a snail haven) would be the perfect place to create a work of art. After toing and froing, I could not think of any negatives to giving Gary a makeover, if anything he deserved it seeing as he had recently moved into my backyard. He deserved a housewarming gift, and I gave it to him.

However, the makeover did not stop there. I have two roommates who after much convincing also took a paintbrush in hand and painted his friends, as Gary was a socialite. After painting his friends, we sat back, admiring our handiwork, and believed for that moment in time that we were the Queer Eye of the animal kingdom. Our eyes were fastened upon the aestheticism to the detriment of our newfound friends…

A white winged foe swooped upon us, clamping Gary’s shell between its beak. Its beating wings left us agape. The seagull settled upon the roof of our shed, relentlessly beating Gary against the tiling. We stood, watching, as his shell was broken, pieces of shell, like pink shrapnel flying across the garden. I imagined a lugubrious slurping taking place, but it lasted mere seconds.

It was only after that I realised snails tend to be brown for a reason and I hate to assume, but it seems fair in saying that the reason may be survival. Their shells serve as camouflage and our colour palette of pink, neon yellow and violet was not exactly obscure. In memory of Gary, we named his friend Sir Gancelot of the garden wall as he had stayed there for the duration of Gary being eaten alive. Gary’s other snail friend remained without name, until it was suggested that Gary the third would be suitable, and so we had a garden of Gary’s, dead and alive.

In the days that remained our garden was devoid of luminescent shells. To this day we do not know if Sir Gancelot of the garden wall and Gary the third survived, but we do know that snail painting is a deadly pastime.

You may think it ended there dear reader, but I had another agenda…

I spotted a middle-aged man of a seagull. He had a puffed-out chest and an enlarged double chin. His beady eyes followed me as I sat outside, his head perched to the side and perhaps it was the confinement of coronavirus or the containment of my madness, but I found myself nearing him.

My hand reached forward, creeping towards him, as I fought the urge to pet him. He eyed me wearily, his webbed feet leaping away from my outstretched palm. I retracted my hand, recalling the incident a friend had spoken of, whereupon a seagull had fastened upon her nipple, tugging eagerly. Skinny dipping and snail painting in the vicinity of seagulls requires preparation unlike what I was accustomed to.