Jean has just managed to find us rooms for the first couple of nights. A converted pool hall, named for a celebrated Aussie billiards wizard - just across the Yarra River and tracks from the Melbourne Cricket Grounds.
Little did she know that our visit would coincide with Eagles concerts, World Cup Cricket matches, Chinese New Year - and the biggest event of all … an all-night city-wide street party called White Night Melbourne.
No rooms at any price anywhere, and we couldn’t even keep our room at the Lindrum, above the pool table. Leave town?
But cricket saved us. Not THE cricket - the game with bat ball and sticky wickets. A cricket - the one that came with 6 legs, cunning, bad timing, and operatic volume. Ours was the Caruso of crickets.
He fired up as we crawled in to recover from White Night. I crashed - but Jean went on the hunt. He must be in the toilet area … or perhaps the tub. Couldn’t tell. Each time she moved, he shut up. In the drain? Up the vent? She started moving furniture. I started waking up.
What are you doing Honey?
I think there is a cricket in here!
Cricket is that game they play here, like baseball.
Not THEE cricket! AH cricket! The bug kind!
Do they have crickets in Australia?
You’re the half Aussie, don’t you know?!!!
No.
No luck, no sleep and no option - down to the manager.
Now Matt, the manager, was cleaning the bar - this is not a big hotel. He confirms that yes, both kinds of cricket can be found in Australia. No, he had not had complaints about the bug kind of cricket before, only the fans of the other kind.
When I objected to him just “spraying the place,” he shuddered - but promised to go up and find him. The shudder was because Matt … hates bugs, fears bugs, and would do anything not to have to deal with a bug. Matt is also frightfully conscientious, frightfully gay, and frightfully thankful when on hands and knees I see the cricket (the bug kind) attempting his escape under the bed. A bit of TP on his little antennae and he is in my grasp. Matt would have kissed me in gratitude had I not had a paper covered cricket in my hand.
Out the front door to a garden, Matt close behind - keeping me between the cricket and himself. He jumps back when the paper is opened and Caruso hops to the ground. Matt crept closer, held my arm and peered down at an admittedly big cricket, shuddered again, and pulled me back inside.
Not only did he find room for us to stay 3 more otherwise homeless nights - but free wine, free beer - whatever we wanted. So we grabs a few hours sleep, Jean grabs a bottle of $100 pinot, I grabs a pint of White Rabbit Ale - and the new night begins. Ending much later looking at graffiti in an alley, and pondering a deep philosophical question:
Why are tears the only human byproduct that it is polite to discuss?
That still unanswered question produced that last disjointed ramble of an email, and now this explanation/apology. Anything else, would not be cricket.
- exSterminator Stew
Little did she know that our visit would coincide with Eagles concerts, World Cup Cricket matches, Chinese New Year - and the biggest event of all … an all-night city-wide street party called White Night Melbourne.
No rooms at any price anywhere, and we couldn’t even keep our room at the Lindrum, above the pool table. Leave town?
But cricket saved us. Not THE cricket - the game with bat ball and sticky wickets. A cricket - the one that came with 6 legs, cunning, bad timing, and operatic volume. Ours was the Caruso of crickets.
He fired up as we crawled in to recover from White Night. I crashed - but Jean went on the hunt. He must be in the toilet area … or perhaps the tub. Couldn’t tell. Each time she moved, he shut up. In the drain? Up the vent? She started moving furniture. I started waking up.
What are you doing Honey?
I think there is a cricket in here!
Cricket is that game they play here, like baseball.
Not THEE cricket! AH cricket! The bug kind!
Do they have crickets in Australia?
You’re the half Aussie, don’t you know?!!!
No.
No luck, no sleep and no option - down to the manager.
Now Matt, the manager, was cleaning the bar - this is not a big hotel. He confirms that yes, both kinds of cricket can be found in Australia. No, he had not had complaints about the bug kind of cricket before, only the fans of the other kind.
When I objected to him just “spraying the place,” he shuddered - but promised to go up and find him. The shudder was because Matt … hates bugs, fears bugs, and would do anything not to have to deal with a bug. Matt is also frightfully conscientious, frightfully gay, and frightfully thankful when on hands and knees I see the cricket (the bug kind) attempting his escape under the bed. A bit of TP on his little antennae and he is in my grasp. Matt would have kissed me in gratitude had I not had a paper covered cricket in my hand.
Out the front door to a garden, Matt close behind - keeping me between the cricket and himself. He jumps back when the paper is opened and Caruso hops to the ground. Matt crept closer, held my arm and peered down at an admittedly big cricket, shuddered again, and pulled me back inside.
Not only did he find room for us to stay 3 more otherwise homeless nights - but free wine, free beer - whatever we wanted. So we grabs a few hours sleep, Jean grabs a bottle of $100 pinot, I grabs a pint of White Rabbit Ale - and the new night begins. Ending much later looking at graffiti in an alley, and pondering a deep philosophical question:
Why are tears the only human byproduct that it is polite to discuss?
That still unanswered question produced that last disjointed ramble of an email, and now this explanation/apology. Anything else, would not be cricket.
- exSterminator Stew
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