No, the title is not a ref to what should be felt by hundreds of thousands of men in the Commonwealth who are willing to spend days on end watching other men in sweaters and white trousers bounce a ball at a stick.
It actually refers to an experience I had last night… in the shower, as it turns out. As I stepped in with the water blasting a saw a cricket caught in the downpour trying to escape. So I caught him on my hand, lifted him up to the open window to let him out and then he jumped….. right back into the water. By the time I’d extracted him a second time and set him outside the basin he’d broken one of his little cricket legs. When I got out of the shower he was still drying off, immobilized but otherwise fine. So I decided that he couldn’t live without his leg functioning and I’d have to end his life with a flush down the toilet. After one flush the guy came up fighting and swimming. Damnitall…I had to do it again.
Now I know that this post is probably going to get me banned for (a) cricket love and (b) content unrelated to the special relationship. But why do I feel guilt for the murder of a cricket but none for the death of a spider?