From:- C.Pike.
Y-ME.
Or this really isn't cricket.
The following set of circumstances started during the evening of
Friday March 15th. Whilst watching television my wife remarked on
several occasions that her hearing aid was playing up. She opined
maybe it was the battery running out. Sometime after the ten o'clock
news she went into the kitchen, and with the door open we both heard a
short, sharp, chirruping, sound. It was quite an eerie sound, and I
set about tracing it's source: checked a radio controlled clock with
alarm, but whilst holding it there was repeat performance, so can't be
the clock, now carried out a close inspection of all gadgets electrical
then the water supply, cupboard doors, and in desperation anything
that could be moved. I suppose at least a quarter of an hour had
elapsed, with maybe ten or twelve 'chirps', which did not appear to
occur at regular intervals. I now had a problem: how to get her nibs
to go on to bed, and also to satisfy myself that this was not some
occult manifestation. Before going any further with this tale, I'll
bet that most of you have got way ahead of me, and have the answer to
the source of the noise. Suddenly the scales drop from my eyes, or
should I say my ears, and am able to set wifies mind at rest. "It's a
cricket" says I, and with a little elaboration of the life cycle of
this homely little pest, and how, years ago no fireplace of any repute
existed without it's crickets, we reluctantly headed for the land of
nod.
Just between ourselves, I was not a hundred per cent sure of my facts,
and so on Saturday morning made a quick dash to the city reference
library; now the only book that dealt with these little blighters,
gave wonderful descriptions of all aspects the life, feeding, and
breeding habits, but nary a word about their demise. There was no
doubt in my mind that we were the hosts of a singing house cricket,
(and I don't like music, or sharing my house); how to rid ourselves of
this pest. It was most considerate by remaining silent until after six
on Sat evening. Closing the kitchen door, and notching the tele volume
up a couple of points, put us in command.
Sunday saw us headed for the local garden centre, from whence we
purchased a can of 'Ky-Bosh'; guaranteed to knock out any creepie-
crawlies. The evening was a repetition of Saturday.
Monday: things have moved on, our visitor has wakened much earlier,
and during the morning I was amazed to hear my wife having a one sided
conversation, with what she now seemed to view as a friend, and what's
more it appeared to reply! A major upheaval in the kitchen was not on
the cards until Tuesday due to prior arrangements; conversation
between my two kitchen habitues was postponed pro temp.
Tuesday saw our friend wide awake by 6.3Oa.m., and in great voice all
morning, until by mid-day any feeling of well being had been replaced
by an urge to shorten it's life forthwith. I should point out that to
pin point the exact location of the sound source was highly debatable;
and boy can we debate..."It's behind the cooker". "No it's not, it's
in the cupboard under the sink". "I'll bet you it's not". "How are you
going to resolve it, if you can't catch it"?. There's no answer to
that: so starting on the right, move a portable cabinet, have running
battle with black widows,(there is no doubt that they are widows,
apparently they devour the males after mating, and they could never
have achieved this size, without a copious supply of fodder!), scour
the site with disinfectant, spray with Ky-bosh, offer up a heartfelt
prayer that no cricket could have survived our onslaught. Move on to
the cooker and repeat as for cabinet. We have not yet dealt with half
the area, and already tempers are frayed, in tatters in fact; who
would think that after fifty years of marriage, a tiny insect less
than an inch long, could come so close to ending a beautiful
relationship. Nevertheless we realise that only by a combined
operation can success be ours; back to the task, out comes the washing
machine, and yet again the scouring routine is carried out,
accompanied by the odd "chirrup" every so often, which doubtless
stiffened our resolve to see this through to the bitter end. The next
hurdle is a cupboard full of cooking impedimenta, wherein I fully
expected to come face to face with the enemy. A vain hope...I ripped
the thing to pieces, and sprayed like billy-o, to the music of the
cricket. There comes a time when you have to accept that nature is
invincible, this acceptance did not come easily, and the Pikes could
have been seen participating in an age old ritual, of the wife beating
her breast, whilst I carried out a search for some hair to tear out;
not a pretty sight!
Wednesday, from morn to night we suffered, but not in silence,
"chirrup" after "chirrup" until I hit upon a devious plan. Recorded
the beast for a while, then played back his song, hoping to entice him
to come out to defend his territory, at the same time yours truly, the
villain of the piece, is waiting armed with a two pound hammer with
which to deliver the 'coup de grace'. Have you ever sat waiting for
something to occur ?, Then you will be well ahead of me, nothing
untoward happened, at least to the cricket, I wound up with cramp in
the arm, and should the little blighter have appeared there was no way
my reactions would have caught him napping. That's round six to the
enemy, we both retired hurt; relations very tense, recalled the adage
"silence is golden", that is between the two of us at least!
Thursday: golden eagle day, so in unison said."Let's go out for the
whole day, and..." Maybe I'll skip the anglo-saxon, and report what a
relief to give the old lug-holes a rest.
Friday had appointment with barber, who commented upon my tense
nervous demeanour. Did I give him the low down, blow by blow just as
above. Then when pausing for breath, he interjected "It's the smoke
alarm battery that has run down" then in a really smug tone "I thought
everyone knew that"
So to those who were ahead of the tale, and knew all about these
things. "Wacko! you can go to the top of the class". By the way has
anyone got a D.I.Y. manual on hair cutting? I can't face the 'Oh, so
knowledgeable' scissors and comb merchant again. Imagine the opening
line. "How are we today? Bowled over or run out this week"? I now
feel so low, I could walk under a snake's belly wearing a top hat.
So will say cheerio whilst weeping in my beer.
Regards Cyril.