My daughter insists on playing chess in an American accent. While I’m delighted she’s taken up the game – you know, I prefer it to Smash the Barbies – I’m a little rattled by the elaborate relationships she projects onto the pieces. Today she refused to move her rook because she said he was still sulking. Apparently the pawn I’d captured had been his best friend, not to mention his cousin. It all made sense then – well, you wouldn’t want to keep playing, would you, not if your pal had been sent off in the opening minutes. I suggested that he could go and visit his friend in prison, so they could still chat, and perhaps watch the rest of the game together, egging their side on. Or take a side each to add to the sense of fun. But she said the pawn was dead. They’re like that, aren’t they, the young folk today. Very dark. I blame Pingu.
About this blog:
a vague creature of rainbow possibilities with a penchant for madness
blogs which please me
- Beware Of The Train
- Dances With Onions
- Finding Gavin
- INFP blog
- PAPERHOUSE
- Tea, Roses and Laudanum
- the maturest student in the world
- The Prozac Queen's Court
- The Tea-Drinkers’ Union
- Wodieskodie
August 17th, 2008 - 9:03 pm
This made me laugh sooo much!
August 18th, 2008 - 12:28 am
Me too.
And I can identify; every object is imbued with a personality with my niece: her Rooster skittle does not play well with the other skittles [cow, camel, duck...] and often sulks.
August 18th, 2008 - 11:04 am
You’ll soon have a completely new version of chess if it goes on like this!
Daughter giving the pieces personalities; you giving a range of psychological reactions… You could develop the ideas a bit further and then patent it (in time for Christmas)!
August 18th, 2008 - 9:13 pm
I thought everyone did this, and that was why it took ages to play. The agony of having to choose which of your children you will allow to be murdered, and which ones you will let have an ice-cream instead. The game is a psychological mine-field.