Move the snail - Chapter from The Porcupine Principle

I think there is an irreconcilable cultural divide between those who love camping and those who do not. Occasionally, very occasionally, I could see the attraction. Waking to a beautiful sunny morning in outstandingly pretty countryside, the smell of bacon frying on the stove and the sound of the whistling kettle. This never happened of course, but that was the dream. Normally, the camping experience was not being able to sleep due to back ache caused by the slowly deflating air beds, then peering out of the tent to see, at best, a light drizzle that had soaked all the things you left out because you were sure it wasn’t going to rain. It always amazed me that we, along with so many other people, worked hard to earn enough to have a decent standard of living, then happily gave up that standard of living to live in a muddy field without basic sanitation for a fortnight. And we called that a holiday.

Nonetheless, it seemed to be an essential rite of passage if you had small children – it’s number 3 on the National Trust’s ‘50 things to do before you are 113/4’, for heaven’s sake – and so camping holidays were had. This involved taking a staggering quantum of ‘stuff’, but happily one of my undeniable skills is packing, and so it was a test I relished in some ways. Arriving back from a three-week camping holiday in France, I once faced the daunting prospect of unloading a very well packed car and a ridiculously oversized roof box. At least twenty trips back and forth up the drive beckoned.

On my first trip, I noticed a snail right in the middle of the drive. I pondered the odds of me standing on the snail as I traipsed back and forth and concluded its life expectancy was not good. Each time I brought in another load, I tried to avoid the snail, which I could not see, because I was carrying stuff in. After about the eighth trip I found myself, ludicrously, resenting the snail. Why did it have to be there, of all places? Why couldn’t it be just a yard to the left or right? But oh no, it had to be in the very most awkward place imaginable. Wasn’t it hard enough bringing in three weeks’ worth of holiday clobber without having to tiptoe around a snail?

I pondered whether I should deliberately take out the snail – a pre-emptive strike – so I didn’t add to the stress of the task by dancing around it. But then, I would feel bad about killing a snail just for my convenience. I started to resent this hideous Hobson’s choice, knowing quite well that I would have to carry the added stress of the snail avoidance strategy rather than living with the guilt of the snail murder for my own convenience. I should clarify, I was very tired at the time.

Eventually, I finished unpacking, with this dilemma unresolved. Sat on the sofa with a restorative cup of tea, and still grumbling about the insensitive snail and why it was tormenting me (did I mention I was very tired?), I thought of a third option – just move the snail. I wish I had thought of that after the first trip, but sadly I did not, as is so often the case. On the rare occasions when I have blinding flash of insight, I normally have it just too late. Plus c¸a change, as the French probably don’t say.

Trying to find the solution to a problem does often require lateral thinking, whatever that means, but, critically, it requires time. So often we rush our thinking and that rushing is where we lose the opportunities for insight. Sometimes this stampede towards a solution is unavoidable – external forces demand it – but, looking back, it is surprising how often it has been self-imposed. Perhaps due to an eagerness to solve a problem and move on, or a fear of the complexity of the problem, we fast forward the decision-making and it rarely ends well when we do so.

I decided to move the snail anyway; I figured I could give it a helping hand after feeling such mean thoughts about it. I hauled myself up from the sofa, went outside to the drive and picked up the shell. It was empty.

Look out for next week’s sample chapter ‘From this distance they couldn’t hit an ele…’

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