What are snails waiting for? In inordinately warm April? On the cool side of upturned flowerpots? Their calendar is geared for rain. Rain could be in days, or weeks. They cluster together, away from the northern sun. Holidays are few and far between: wet heaven under fallen narcissus. Wait, for what? The magical call on the mobile? They curl up for hours with the message. Their shells are unfashionable ‘camouflage’. They put their big foot in it. They’re not documentary material, waiting and wandering. If there’s a pattern to this it follows no rulebook, leaves only silver trails along footpaths.