IT'S THE WEEKEND: Diary of a fairy godmother - The one in which we tackle Minecraft
6:00pm Saturday 11th January 2014 in News
The one in which we tackle Minecraft
IT'S an obsession among lads of a certain age. Minecraft.
New Year's Eve proves a trying time for the Godson. There is a Minecraft crisis.
"I can't do it! I can't make my sheep purple!" Godson is perplexed.
He doesn't like not being good at things. He likes nothing better than to play table football against opponents he knows will lose (me, his mother), but is less keen to play against opponents who prove a real challenge for him (his father).
He is never happier than when letting his hapless godmother win a few points at table football - and he is pretty obvious about it.
Me: "You're letting me win those point! You're not even trying!"
Godson, smirking: "Yes."
Oh well, at least he's honest about it, however damaging it is to my ego.
Note to self: do not take this kid on in pool. Stick to poker. He doesn't have much of a 'face'.
Back to Minecraft. Godson is in 'creator' - and has created rollercoasters, a farm with penned sheep and pigs, a submarine. Godson is able to build a house on top of pits filled with explosives - just in case he is "attacked" by nocturnal monsters in the game. Or just because it's cool to watch the explosions. I'm not sure which.
The levels of land look like Aztec pyramids. The clouds hang squarely in the blocky blue sky. Moving Sticklebricks.
For some reason not known to anyone except the people who created this stuff, one can change the colour of sheep - dye them. I do hope this does not lead to incidents of sheep dyeing in real life. I cannot bear the thought of our hills being alive with pink sheep, it's just wrong. All wrong.
I am glad I know nothing about the game. Somehow, this crisis will be resolved without my input.
The answer is obvious. Godson's pal is a Minecraft expert. Call him in. If in doubt, ask a nine-year-old.
As we all contemplate midnight, Godson is over the crisis and determined to stay up to see the new year in.
Fifteen minutes to go and he is face down on the sofa, dead to the world.
Maybe next year....
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