It’s National Poetry Day, for once it’s the actual day for this country so I’m not just using another nation’s day as an excuse. I wasn’t intending to write a poem, but this almost came out spontaneously as a response to an email, so I thought I’d better scrub it, put it here and reply more sensibly. I’m not saying this is the definitive guide to child-rearing, incidentally. Just a facet of how I see it.
Drown me in this awful boredom
Stretch my skin across my desk
Let it dry to leather
Over rubbed-blank keyboard sweat
A collection of my MostlyFilm articles on videogames.
A loose trilogy:
On sex (and sexism).
On difficulty – casual and hardcore settings.
Separately, but carrying through a lot of the same sorts of thoughts, on GTA and Saints Row.
The Dragonborn returns to Skyrim, having been distracted by other worlds and challenges.
"WAIT, I MEANT TO PRESS THE BUTTON FOR INVENTORY!"
I have talked about this sort of thing before. But the industry – THE GAMING-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX – is taking the piss once more. This time it’s Ubisoft, and not for the first time.
"In my long robes, I could be anybody. Except a chick, obvs."
There follows my contemporaneous review of
and the philosopher’s stone
My thoughts on the finale are here. Compare and contrast.
He is a window, in protest
London breathes in
Swathed and rippling
In flattened heat.
He’d been out across the Thames a couple of times, at night in his bare feet. Padding near-silently over the erratic wavelets, just to see if he could still do it. It came to him the second time that it might just be a dream; it was probably a dream, it was a dream when he was a child and he played out there, running under the bridges to hide, and wandering past the moored ships, touching their massive sides with his fingertips, wondering how they stayed afloat.
It had been cold for as long as any of us could remember, but memory is short when you’re a child. Four months of bitter winter felt like four years; imprisoned in duffle coats and bobble hats, playgrounds icy, gloomy battlegrounds where we fought with the very concept of fun.
It was 1986 and we were ten. Well, Martin and I were ten – Peter and his twin sister Dawn were both nine, and the distinction was powerful. They would be ten in the summer, but the summer was a lifetime away. Dawn was, as these things go, taller than all of us already so we grudgingly let her play in our gang. That, and Peter’s Mum said we had to.