Ah, Paisley, 1928 — a warm August night, the kind that makes the cobblestones shine and snails (like me) feel unusually adventurous. I was having a wee snooze, minding my own spirals, when fate nudged me out of a dark brown bottle with all the subtlety of a tram conductor shouting “All aboard!”
Meanwhile, May Donoghue — tired, hopeful, and ready for a rare night off — was making her way from Glasgow to meet a friend at the Wellmeadow Café. She had no idea she and I were about to share a moment that would echo through legal history.
Owned by the ever-cheerful Francis Minghella, the Wellmeadow Café was buzzing softly, and Frankie was serving ice cream with the enthusiasm of a man who truly believed in dairy-based joy. May and her friend settled by the window, laughing, catching up, and ordering treats.
A Pear and Ice for the friend.
A Scotsman Float for May.
And me? I was already inside the bottle, doing my best impression of a shipwreck survivor.
Everything Was Normal… Until It Wasn’t
May took a sip. Delicious.
She laughed. Delightful.
She relaxed. Deserved.
Then Francis, being helpful, lifted the bottle to top up her glass.
And that’s when I made my grand entrance.
A plop.
A splash.
A collective gasp.
I tumbled into the tumbler like a tragic actor falling onto the stage — dramatic, uninvited, and slightly decomposed.
May shrieked.
Her friend froze.
Francis panicked.
I… did not take it personally.
May fled to the bathroom, sick with shock. Francis insisted the bottle came sealed from David Stevenson’s factory — his name etched right into the glass.
And in that moment, something shifted.
May felt wronged.
Francis felt cornered.
Stevenson felt distant.
And I, a humble snail, had accidentally set the stage for Donoghue v Stevenson — the case that would give the world the modern duty of care.
Not bad for a creature who moves six inches a minute.
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