Cricket Anyone?

 It's that time of year of course. The days are long, the shadows longer, insects hum among the bushes, the sun burns brightly overhead and some poor bastard in a red suit and fake beard is gritting his teeth in what he thinks is a grin as small children torment his last moments before collapsing from heat exhaustion. Yes, it's Summer in Australia. 

And then there's the cricket. I can't emphasise how important the cricket is to me right now. The chirruping little bastard won't let me get any sleep. Having finally managed to evict the pigeons from my apartment (to be fair they just got bored with tormenting me and left of their own accord) I thought I was due a wildlife free week or two. But nooo. Lying in bed the other night I was ready for sleep. I had locked the front door, wept silently in the bathroom for an hour, removed my make up, removed my other make up and sprawled on my bed ready for the little death to come upon me when an unearthly noise jerked me from my incipient slumber. 

I lay there for an hour or two as what appeared to be every insect in creation held a metal concert in my bedroom. Finally I took action. With a hysterical sob I hurled a pillow in the general direction of the noise. Not only did that not help but I then had to get up and fetch my pillow. With a deep sigh I turned on the lamp. The noise stopped. I turned the lamp off, the noise started again. The cricket and I went through this cycle for so long it's a good thing neither of us was epileptic. 

Eventually I accepted I was going to have to do more than just turn a lamp on and off. Turning the lamp on one final time I lurched out of bed and conducted a forensic search of my bedroom. I didn't expect it to take too long. From the noise I expected a six foot long insect with a drum kit. Finally after hours of frantic searching I encountered something tiny crouching on a piece of furniture. I stared, was this tiny shred of existence what I had been searching for? Apparently yes. I had geared myself up for insect slaughter, wreaking a bloody revenge for my lost sleep but I couldn't remain angry at the tiny, cute little insect now staring up at me. Gently I scooped it up, took it out onto the balcony and released it into the wild. By "released it into the wild" I mean I flapped my hand about frantically until air pressure finally dislodged its apparent death grip on my finger.

Pleased with my non-lethal resolution of the problem I went back to my bedroom, turned off my alarm and got ready for work. The next night the little bastard was back. This time he didn't even wait until I was in bed. It was early in the evening and I was engaged in rocking in a foetal position on my couch when the noise started. The light was on, the television was blaring and over it all came the smug metallic grating of a cricket who had worked out that I was too soft hearted to stomp it into mush and was prepared to take full advantage. Once again I escorted the cricket as far as the balcony where he vanished into the night. He didn't come back, instead I lay awake all night waiting for him. Every slight noise had me alert and trembling but the chirrup didn't come. By the time dawn came around I was exhausted, sleepless and slightly hurt. Wasn't my apartment good enough anymore? I prowled around pretending I wasn't looking for him but the cricket didn't show. Finally I went to work with a deep, unresolved sense of loss.

It occurs to me that I must be the only person who has Stockholm Syndrome delivered to him.