Thursday, 10 October 2013


I don't discriminate - I hate all bugs equally. Especially big ones. For example, the cicada.

Dave held this guy the other week and spouted off all these cicada names. The greengrocer, the black prince, brown bunyip. Cicadas have NAMES?

The sound of them instantly takes me back to summertime when I was a kid. Cicada season has started early up here, something to do with the hot weather. They are SO NOISY that sometimes I can't even open a window. I thought I might be just getting more cranky in my old age but yesterdays Gazette proved it:

We have an outbreak up here, people. It comes as no surprise at all that Rocco adores cicadas.

Max does not. His exact words were, "I can't even hold the SHELLS mum." Hi-five, sweetheart.

Dave actually took a photo of a cicada hatching from its shell. *GAG*

                             Anybody got Sigourney Weavers phone number?

A chorus of cicadas are going for it right now in the backyard. Every so often, they all get into a rhythm (a circadian rhythm?) which sounds pretty cool. But mostly I wish they'd just shut up.

                             Is there something in my eye?

Years ago I was talking to Jim about cicadas and he told me to imagine being one, stuck down beneath the ground for seven years until one day you start pushing and pushing yourself to the surface to find: you're trapped under a concrete slab of a new carport or extension. Man we laughed.

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