All was peace and quiet this afternoon during the World Cup match, of which, perhaps, the less said the better. No passing traffic – all of England was either watching the match or somnolent with boredom (put me in the latter category).

Immediately the match was over all hell broke loose – not the score and the cries of “we wuz robbed”, but the world coming back to life again.

Bear was sitting in the garden, and looked up. “I can hear a cricket, but I can’t see it, but it’s coming from over there somewhere.” We finally traced the critter, but every time it rubbed its little legs together some wretched child shrieked, some moron revved his motorbike, some blackbird decided to sing its heart out and I could cheerfully have baked it in a pie  (I know the recipe calls for four-and-twenty . . .) It just wasn’t cricket.

Finally everything came together and I felt like David Attenborough observing the habits of the lesser-spotted wotsit after days in the jungles of Borneo: our little friend picked a quiet moment to do its little thrumming thing, not once, not twice, but three times. Brrm brrm brrmmm.

I’m bowled over!!

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