I have just come in from the garden, on a distinct high from a frenzy of snail attacks. These have become a regular early morning thing this year as I am determined not to let the little b........s consume one more succulent leaf of my vegetables. I have tried all the usual methods of defeating these useless, slimy and insidious animals in the past, including vast quantities of snail bait, traps consisting of saucers of beer, dropping them into pails of salt water, surrounding them with egg shells and stamping on them. I've been considering surrounding my entire patch with broken glass but have reluctantly shelved this idea because of my small grandchildren. Without a doubt I've elicited the greatest pleasure from stamping on them - accompanied by language which I would blush to utter in the presence of people and which would make my mother turn in her grave. My parents' worst swear words were "Damn, blast" and when extremely provoked, "Bugger". As the next generation I have used these but graduated mostly to "Oh, sh...t", although I wince at the connotations. I use the current worst one, "F....k" only extremely sparingly and in the most tolerant of company or (sometimes excitingly) in the bedroom. I do consider myself pretty well brought-up, so I have never sworn in the Delivery Room, even though, in my day, there was no such thing as an epidural: we were expected to suffer in lady-like silence, sometimes for days, and this we did, merely groaning/yelling in as repressed a fashion as we could to indicate pain. There was some research done recently in the UK (demonstrated on camera by a nicely-built, tall and handsome young doctor), which showed that our pain threshold increases remarkably if we are allowed to swear out way through it. (Duh - you don't need to tell women that). I was gob-smacked though, at the amount of F words in the film: "The Wolf of Wall Street". After all, the constant use of the word didn't seem to have any kind of therapeutic effect on the manic cast of traders but it did become very wearing on the ears of the cinema audience. Still a brilliantly made film - if about 40 minutes too long. And most of those minutes were the awful orgies if you ask me. Imagine having the licence to use 'that word' so relentlessly that you no longer get a thrill out of it. Sad.