Commuters on two train stations heard Fon's scream. Feisty flew from their bed to find her rooted to the spot, clad only in her sparkly shower cap. Through chattering teeth she wailed, 'Feisty, there are f*cking SLUGS in our shower!'

Feisty followed her bloodless finger and recoiled as four of the fattest gastropods he'd ever seen pulsed nonchalantly across the walls and floor. Losing all sense of karma, he mounted the cubicle, reached in and turned the hot tap on full. Aiming the showerhead like an Indonesian water cannon, he blasted the writhing intruders onto the drain hole and into oblivion. He then hosed the surfaces repeatedly as Fon regained sufficient motor control to retrieve her robe and retreat to the kitchen.

A few days later, two more slugs appeared. Ashamed of his former reaction, Feisty gingerly plucked them with disposable chopsticks and threw them in the garden. They returned the following night. And the next. He didn't want to kill them, but could find no merit in allowing them to stay. Then, completely by accident, he encountered an enchanting article on slugs in New Scientist.

A naturalist in ever-damp Sydney, on observing three species of slugs in his shower, had discovered that they loved eating mould. Through a series of experiments, he had even determined that the Great Grey Slug (limax flava) exhibited the optimum combination of appetite, light aversion and territoriality. He provided a ceramic oil burner, to which his 'leotard' of slugs returned every morning. In return, they cleaned his shower nightly - growing up to nine centimetres long in the process.

'No f*cking WAY!' replied Fon to Feisty's carefully worded suggestion.

To be continued...