Crushed

Closing a door is not usually a traumatic experience.  Unless we're talking metaphorically.  But I'm not.  I actually did close a door.  And it crunched.  It's not a sound I normally associate with a door.  Slow speed car crashes, yes.  Walnuts in a nut cracker, yes.  Closing a door.  No.  Not Normally.

I reopened the door.  I still had all my fingers.  The raw eggs I carry in my waistcoat pocket were all still intact.  In fact, as far as I could see, there was noting wrong at all.

I closed the door again.  More crunching.  I looked around expecting to see the famous Peruvian Novelty Act, El Crisp Crunchers, starting a new performance behind me.  The street, though, was empty.

I looked around the door frame.  Nothing.  However, when I bent down, I saw something was dangling. 

Now, I'm a sensible chap.  Not known for rash behaviour or foolishness.  Some say I am a paragon of mild manners (if one ignores those few misdemeanours catalogued in volumes one to twenty six of "Mistakes I Have Made" by CR). Uncharacteristically, I acted without thinking.  I haven't done that since I was last confronted by a traffic warden in suspenders. 

I wiped the dangling thing with my finger.  It was wet and slimy and there was more to it than I'd imagined.  There were fragments of shell.  There was a grey gloopy substance with the remains of a crude sucker-based propulsion system. It was a freshly crushed snail.  And it was hanging from my finger.

I'm not a big snail lover.  Contrary to those scurrilous accusations.  Nor do I hold any particular grudge against them.  But having the mutilated remnants of this mollusc stuck to my finger must count as one of my most unpleasant experiences.  So fat today at least.