The cricket cometh …

 Summertime here in Australia = 2 things. Christmas and the cricket season. On boxing day, I had my entire family at my house. There were 20 bodies in my home (counting sam, who is 5 months old and an A-grade charmer).I know I am supposed to be talking about my fibre arts, knitting and designing, and the business I have set up with my sister. I do do that, but I ram it all in with life stuff as well because I am like that. So this is life stuff, read on McDuff!  Where was I, yes, that’s right 20 bodies in my house. It was going absolutely nuts. Kids everywhere, noise level through the roof. I had decided to be festive and had Bing in the background singing christmas carols, and all that did to the noise was add an orchestra to the exiting chaos level. So in the middle of it all, a delegation (my dad, my two brother in laws and my brother) stood in front of me looking hopeful. “So” said my brother the spokesman, “where’s your remote? I’ll just put the cricket on.” They all leaned forward expectantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see some of the kids floating around, looking miserable.See, “just putting the cricket on” has this effect. 5 grown men, go and sit on my lounges which means that no one can sit anywhere but on the floor. The lounges are huge, and can normally sit about 6 folks on one and one person with a squirmy kid on the single sofa. But once those buggers get on it, that’s five sprawling men all looking for somewhere to put their drinks.And I want to know why cricket season means that the legs and arms of the average Australian male shrivel up into stick like stumps. They must do, because the effort that is required to actually put the glasses and mugs down on the coffee tables is so great, all they can manage is a pitiful plonk down on the floor near their feet or on the bookcase near their elbow.Then comes the arguing with the tv. This absolutely amazes me. Why yell at the tv in the first place? All that does is wake up which ever one has gone to sleep because they ate too much. It’s not like the umpire at the match will suddenly turn around and say “sorry lads, we have to suspend play, the boys in Beecroft haven’t liked my call so I’ll have to consult them in the break. They, after all, know more than I ever will in my professional capacity as an internationally known cricket Umpire.”  Then comes the slavery. Because of their little shriveled arms, the disease apparently spreads to their legs. This means that whatever child has made the monumental mistake of walking past the door of the family room, all of sudden becomes personal valet to these five jackasses. Tasks involve “tell your mum to put the kettle on”, “take this to the sink”, “turn up the tv” (my personal favourite, the remote is normally lying at one of their feet), “bring us the chips”, “did I see lollies out there?”, “ask your mother if lunch is ready.” Then all of a sudden something major happens in the game, their arms and legs grow back (only for an instant), they all leap up and knock all the mugs and cups lying around their feet and elbows. Tea, coke and beer everywhere. They look at the poor kid waiting on them hand and foot and one of the intellectual geniuses says, “you’d better get your mother.” Lucky last is the farting. Industrial strength farting that hangs around for days after. A stench so bad, that a methane haze lingers in my family room until June. As I looked at the kids out of the corner of my eye, I could see them wilt. They knew what was coming, and I knew they would be out by the pool, eyeing of the shrubs to see which would be better to pee behind so they wouldn’t have to walk past the family room door. I looked at these five grown men and said … “No, I’d rather set my head on fire then let you buggers watch the cricket. Out you go, they’re all waiting for you outside.” The kids rejoiced, and I put on a cartoon for them, and the beecroft cricket delegation slunk out through the kitchen to go sit by the pool. My brother tried to sneak in “what about the start of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race?” but I beat him to it. “Never in a million years, and over my dead body” was my answer. He grumbled about wanting to make that happen, and got himself a beer. They had to content themselves, poor little things, with checking the score on their mobile phones. Every now and then one of them would say “17 for 22″, or “out for 12″, and then they would all sigh. We had a fab family day all together, no kids were hurt, harmed or maimed, and my family room doesn’t smell like a boy’s locker room.Jo 1 – Beecroft Cricket delegation – 0.