I have a cricket on my hearth. Actually, he's about two feet to the right of the hearth, hiding among the plants in my indoor garden. A cricket on your hearth is suppose to be lucky.
As I sat trying to watch Rosemary and Thyme on PBS last night while listening to the little bugger get louder and louder, I began to question if "two feet to the right" was close enough to the hearth to count. Honestly, he must have been using a mini Mr. Microphone. I've never heard a more obnoxious cricket in my life. Death became a viable option.
I tried to ignore him, but his singing drowned out the dialogue between Rosemary and Mrs. Thyme as they attempted to solve yet another murder mystery.
I don't know why crickets sing. Are they looking for love? Do they just love the sound it makes when one rubs one's hind legs together?
Since I couldn't follow the plot on TV, my mind began to wander. Although the cricket was more like the teenager next door with a new set of drums, I pictured him in top hat and tails (ala Jiminy Cricket), and I saw him strutting to the tune of "Hello, My Baby" as he practiced for a part in an upcoming Broadway revival. When he began "Singing in the Rain" and tap dancing in a puddle from a flower pot, I began to believe he was going to make it. He was going to be a STAR.
I let him live, of course.
I get free tickets for the dress rehearsal.
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