A man comes to a point in his life when he finds he has lost his stridulations. I like to joke about it, but I feel a little sadness too. For last week I was in the rough meadows around derelict glasshouses, bush grass pointing tall, betony and bedstraw in flower. Grasshoppers and crickets were chirruping all around. And I could not hear them.
I’ve missed crickets and grasshoppers all summer long. It’s not that they have gone under the radar; there is no radar, no aural prompt that draws my eyes to the source. I’ve forgotten to look. Somewhere close by in the long grass an orthopteran plays scratchy fiddle, raking its hind legs over the fret of veined wings. And that rasp-rasp is loud, but only in my imagination.
