One wonderfully damp and drizzly cold morning, a slug called Reilly wandered away from the confines, the safety of his garden. Sliming his way under the garden gate, he pointed his stalked eyes, one in each direction, along the busy street outside, wondering which way to go. “This is indeed a fine place to begin my travels,” he said to himself. “To think I might have spent the rest of my life, all seventy-five weeks of it, in that dull and ever so boring old garden.” Being left-handed, Reilly decided to turn left (yes, slugs can be left-handed, despite their shortage of appendages). Sliming his way happily along the path, he believed the world was his oyster. Soon, gate and garden were far behind him. “I had better be careful,” said the adventurous slug, “I don’t want to end up like uncle Myles. He wandered off across the road, and a camper van ran over him. I must be careful, to avoid such a terrible fate.” A mad, whacky story about the time when Horrible Horace found a big, slimy old slug.