On Sunday, we had the please of Carole’s niece for company.
After lying to her face by claiming that we weren’t currently in possession of one particular Xbox game that she always wants to play – but not properly – we did a series of things which put a smile on her otherwise worried countenance.
Among those was a trip to the games shelf and a few rounds of a game called Poo. A ridiculously simple game in which you play as a monkey who flings poo at other monkeys. You reach 15 pieces of poo, you’re out of the game.
To a child.
Who I was explaining the different cards to.
And to Carole. Who I wasn’t explaining the cards to.
I don’t think I should bother with any sort of board game. If I can’t even manage to beat someone who a) has never even played the game before and b) doesn’t understand the cards then who will I be able to beat?
Not that it’s the winning that counts, of course. It’s just the taking part. But I’ve been taking part for weeks and weeks now, and frankly that sucks balls. I want to win. I’ve seen how happy it makes people. I want some of that. I want to be able to lift my head high and know that, for example, I bested a child at a card game they had never played before.
But I can’t.
The games we played the weekend aren’t included in the year’s tally for Carole and myself. Which, incidently, currently stands at:
If they were included, then it would be
Which, at least, would put me in joint last. But still…
I don’t know why I bother.