Every night, without fail, we fall in to the same routine once ‘our time’ kicks in.

“I’ll just have the one game, shall I?” he says, as he’s already flicking the Xbox on, controller firmly positioned in his hands, as though he’s cradling Harry as a tiny, helpless baby once again.

Of course, I agree, every time. Why? Because quite simply, it’s not worth the bloody earache. You see he says “one game”, and in real time is round about 9 minutes. But it’s never just 9 minutes; there’s the yelling at the other player, causing them to retaliate and re watch their goals (this drives me to the point of almost stabbing myself in the chest due to the ridiculous whining that Wayne emits), then there’s the complaining of playing in rain (I don’t have the heart to remind him it’s not real and he’s in a virtual world, probably playing some 11 year old Mensa qualified, Chinese genius) and the moaning of unfair play.

Don’t get me started on the player selection; it’s all taken way too seriously for my liking. It really is as though Wayne believes that he’s the manager and those dots on the screen (I’m no techy) that formulate his players, are real men, playing for him.

This one time, Wayne got so annoyed, he yanked the disc from the Xbox, snapped it in half and proceeded to throw it on to the garden in a complete state of what I can only describe as one one humongous bitch fit. Anything that can stress you out this badly, surely can’t be enjoyable?

Every night I watch as my soft and gentle (I’m sorry manly and neanderthal) husband to be swears like a trooper and indulge in hours worth of gaming. And every night I sit and watch. And listen. And sigh. And inwardly bitch and mutter ‘what the fuck’ at least 215 times to myself.

But as much as I complain, I’ve come to the realisation after all this time, he enjoys it. So I’ll carry on. Watching and listening. And whispering ‘what the fuck’.

After all, what’s “one game” when I’ve a lifetime of Xbox to embrace.

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