What’s worse than being a COD widow?

Answer: Being a COD audience. Scifi hubby has been playing COD for ten days now. He’s played through my parents visiting, he’s played through my birthday, he’s played whilst I’ve been at work, or asleep or cooking dinner. There’s a Scifi hubby shaped dip in the sofa.

Of course, I can’t talk to him whilst he plays as “You’ll get me killed”. It’s fairly true, I only have to walk in the room he seems to die. If I speak he dies repeatedly. So I tend to sit at the other end of the sofa, reading a good book and trying to ignore him as he swears at the TV. He’s quite hard to ignore…

I was joking with a friend this week that she is like her cat – likes affection, enjoys being stroked but is flighty, only likes people on her terms and is quick to get her claws out if cornered. Scifi hubby is cat like too but more like a mouser who keeps bringing dead, and not so dead, mice into the house and miaowing to get attention until you tell him what a clever boy he is and give him a cat treat. So I’m learning to ‘appreciate’ him getting the final kill in a game, how well he can shoot zombies, how ‘camping’ is effective and the importance of a kill streak. However, I’m still working out what to give him as his ‘cat treat’…

20121124-203619.jpg I do like this (slightly adapted) photo that’s doing the rounds on Facebook

Advertisements