The Fear Of Losing What You Once Had.

Maintaining and sustaining a successful relationship with a partner, is infinitely more arduous than even the preliminary courtship of a potential romance. Being the introvert that I am, summoning the necessary affable charm to even engage with a women required an inherent confidence with speech, absent from my modest repository of communication. So to meet someone that can tolerate my fascination with a specific hobby, even if she didn’t share the same passion, is a rare and cherished thing.

To build a rapport around each other’s interests, in spite of your differences entails a tremendous amount of patience and time to cultivate. A process that, when your egocentric predilection’s are moderated, affords a compatibility that surpasses mere partnership. But to have a union so assured that you can inhabit the same space in silence and feel perfectly at ease, or using your towel like dental floss to dry yourself after emerging from the shower, while your other half is squatting out last nights Piri-Piri chicken, that’s been simmering in their bowels for a day. This kind of harmony is hard to find. But having kids creates significant impediments to that dynamic.

It isn’t hyperbole to say that having a child changes things. As you can imagine trying to supervise a loud, fetid, inherently selfish creature is a stressful proposition. Certainly seems to be some correlation between my daughter’s birth and the escalating prominence of grey in my hair. It’s a life altering commitment, fraught with many ups and downs that ultimately drives an emotional wedge between yourself and your partner. Your relationship can become diluted by the commitment of child rearing, as your time is monopolised by an attention draining parasite, that is so wholly reliant on you. To clarify, I mean parasite in the most affectionate way possible.

It’s easy, no, necessary to slip into routine. Maintaining a consistent regimen is as important to a child’s development as education. A crucial component in discipline too. But it’s reassuring to know that when our daughter is absent, even for school, that bond that has been somewhat destabilised by our daughter is still there. Strained, sure, but present. More importantly that we can still engage and relate, separate from our parental responsibilities. That if we go out for drinks and a couple of games of pool, that we aren’t sitting idling in awkward silence.

My greatest fear when my daughter was born, other than her safety and welfare, was the irreparable changes to our relationship. Whether we will still retain the same connection we had before. But its comforting to know that despite the years selfless dedication to our boisterous, smarter than her genetics would suggest offspring, that the division created between myself and my partner, isn’t the gaping chasm I feared it would be. That there isn’t a reliance on our daughter to sustain our relationship. If anything, I’d say that the introduction of our daughter has galvanised us. Besides, I’d think Stockholm Syndrome would have finally settled in by now, which is very fortunate for me.

A Season For Gaming.

As the day’s begin to shorten, the weather shifts from the evanescent dispersal of warmth to a perpetual frigid gloom, and households discover that after 6 months of inactivity, their heating doesn’t work. Desires to socialise outside begin to diminish, with the resulting autumnal bleakness signalling the advent of compulsory confinement from the transitional, temperate season. The errant cold and prolific torrential rain that saturates your life, prevents extensive travel beyond the brisk saunter to the shops to obtain the necessary provisions for comfortable isolation. As someone who disparages the humidity of a persistent summer, those stifling August evenings that make sleep unbearable, autumn is a blessing. And the best time of year to game.

There’s no greater comfort in the world than getting my daughter settled into bed, anaesthetised with calpol if necessary. Encouraging my partner to capitulate to her own crippling lethargy, sufficiently sedated by gin, if necessary. Nestling on the sofa in an empty living room, draped in blanket, sipping tea and nodding off in the middle of an intense online firefight. Shielded from the swelling gust of wind buffeting my bay window, desperate to punctuate my secure convalescence.

Every vacant opportunity to engage in hour’s of committed game time is utilised with considerable vigor. A year round credence, dutifully obliged with ardent distinction. Yet a pledge I’m more attentive too during this transitional period. I’m more focused. Receptive to the peremptory needs of the game. Less distracted by the irrepressible radiance of my phone, more inclined to anchor my unsettled mind into a game. During the summer the glare from the sun’s reflection on the glass, the oppressive heat that chokes any scarcely ventilated room and incessant perspiration, facilitate an environment unsuitable for playing game’s. It is much easier to regulate body temperature during these autumnal months, that is conducive to the rigours of gaming.

The fact of the matter is that I spend 5 days of my week in a warehouse. A job that necessitates outside exertion, or at the very least being adjacent to the cold. When the exterior is as grim as an office temps prospects at Ubisoft, I feel assuaged living a vicarious life of a computer generated character than that of a man suffering from early onset narcolepsy. As frigid as the world outside can be, I know that my home, as well as my game’s, can protect me from it. Unless of course, my heating breaks again.

My Job And Why I still Hate It.

For the past year or so, I have been very sincere in regards to the growing contempt I foster for my current job. Detailing the particulars in very forthright and earnest manner, in an attempt to liberate some sense of catharsis from the whole ordeal. This blog, originally intended as a source for obscure gaming eccentricity, has swiftly descended into a journal documenting my slump into melancholy. But the rate at which my patience to endure my job is being tested, has elevated with such consistency that it may as well be written into my contract.

The provocation for this current entry was a verbal altercation with a supervisor. A boorish, narcissistic oath, with all wit and humility of a Trump speech. The kind of guy that would pick a fight with someone weaker than them to demonstrate his superiority. Though only really succeeding in exposing his insecurities. An already established buffoon amongst the collective faculty, elevated to a position of power through intimidation, “working” extra hours and being loud. But he also commands the loyalty of a small contingent of impressionable youngster’s who frankly don’t know any better. In any case, I have low tolerance for the blustering of a deranged megalomaniac. Particularly one looking to rile up other employees.

The specifics of our now venerated dispute are immaterial really. Just the mundane office politics that pivoted into the agitated ramblings of an egotist losing control. Fundamentally it was a discourse concluded with an intermediary and begrudging handshake. Nothing that a enough time and aggressive music couldn’t placate. But when I reflect on it now, what angers me most isn’t the antagonistic nature of the exchange, but that I even felt compelled to retaliate at all.

The trouble is when someone comes at me with such indignant ferocity, I resist. In much the same way as a cliched movie President will dramatically declare that he won’t comply with terrorists demands; I don’t negotiate with bullies. But my defiance provided little advantage, only succeeding in feeding his delusion and bolstering his considerable hubris. While at the same time etching a permanent scowl across my face. With the rest of my body reciprocating that grimace, feeling taught and tense.

This is the kind of place where this hyper masculine behaviour is encouraged, nurtured and propagated. He is a product of an environment he himself has fostered. But at the end of this all I can leave this place. Safe in the knowledge that as soon as I inhale that fresh air, any festering agitation will be relieved. A grievance only further mitigated by listening to one of my daughter’s many hilarious anecdotes and observations. With the only lingering memory of the whole sordid affair, being pity for a man so desperate for validation that he would deliberately instigate an argument to make himself feel superior. Sad.

Hen Do, Nope.

You see this radiant culinary display pictured above? This elegant arrangement of dips, donuts, pungent cheese and succulent cured meats? A banquet fit for a Roman emperor? Or the inebriated clamouring of a Hen party? Yes this flourishing buffet was erected for the express consumption of a Hen party. One hosted by my significant other. In our house. While I was there! A traditional gathering of over stimulated banshees, carousing in a vigorous display of booze, hysterical laughter and an assortment of penis shaped paraphernalia.

Now of course being the introverted misanthrope that I am, I had no desire to attend such a revolting affair. But as I previously stated, the event was scheduled in my home by my eager partner. So with that knowledge at hand and with nowhere else to hide for the evening, I decided to barricade myself away in our bedroom. Ensuring an agreed amnesty from the proceeding events, with the caveat that I must assist in some of the initial arrangement. A stipulation I was more than happy to comply with, provided that she honoured our earlier agreement of leaving me alone later.

Of course my generous servitude was utilised with considerable vigour. As I was dispatched to neighbouring supermarkets to retrieve serviettes and other trivial party supplements absent from our local outlet, whilst chauffeuring several guest’s to purchase other party enabling additives. Though my assistance was suitably exploited, I was satisfied knowing that my abstention from any further involvement would be honoured. A promise that was mercifully respected.

With my errands concluded and the rousing function in full swing, my services were no longer required. Affording me the fortuitous opportunity to engage in hour’s of almost uninterrupted convalescence. Gaming. Movies. A spontaneous siesta. Gorging myself with a family bucket of chicken for one. All the benefits of being barricaded in your own bedroom, like a trapped survivor in a zombie apocalypse. An experience braced by having earlier sequestered my PS5 from the living room. Neutralising the chance of interacting with the drunken menagerie that had invaded my home.

And yet, despite the invasive violation of my home, the distant cackles and incessant shouting from the banshees infatuated desire for the whipped cream smothered, slab of biceps and abs they’d hired to entertain this lecherous rabble, demanding more flesh like a pack of ravenous hyenas. Which in no way made me emasculated at all! And even though I was one chicken leg away from a cardiac arrest, I felt at peace. And if lying there on my bed, covered in the filthy remnants of discarded chocolate wrappers, empty beer bottles and deep fried coated chicken skin strewn across my lifeless carcass, just lapsed into a Kentucky Fried coma, I think I would die happy. Greasy, but happy.

A Tranquil Return To No Man’s Sky.

No Man’s Sky (NMS) might be the most belated success story in gaming history. Contrived as an ambitious space exploration, survival experience, NMS neglected to generate the 18 quintillion worlds with an equivalent diversity of activities or organisms to document. A severe limitation on interactivity was devastating for NMS and the resulting vitriol from the wider gaming firmament was almost ceaseless. With the game subsequently enduring the collective anger of the PlayStation community for not being another Sony aligned success, and thus promptly dismissed by the community.

My initial introduction to NMS came a couple of years after its divisive excretion, by which time the game had been significantly bolstered by quality of life updates. And it’s only in recent weeks that I’ve returned to these procedurally generated ecosystems, to rediscover a neglected rapport I briefly shared with this striking jaunt into the celestial vastness.

The games emphasis on exploration and discovery is further complemented by the necessity of extracting resources from the environment, that can be synthesised into requisite components that generate artificial protection from a hazardous atmosphere, such as radiation or poison. Or fuelling your ships thrusters, that when consumed leaves you stranded on a potentially hostile planet. Player agency is very much dependent on player preparation and management of inventory. An aspect very jarring to someone that readily submits to their hoarding persuasions. But if you can assuage that instinct and prioritise the more salient material’s, NMS becomes a much more therapeutic experience.

That’s the thing too, it’s so deceptively calming. Almost meditative. Despite the perennial scavenging of minerals and habitual item management, the precipitation of these resources occurs in such a passive controlled manner, that it’s necessity is actually therapeutic rather than exasperating. Once you’ve begun building a little homestead, methodically establishing a modest colonisation, with convenient access to local amenities, resources and hopefully an exquisite view of a crystal clear lake, the serenity of your humble settlement will seem like a palatial haven. With the most significant thing being that it will likely be YOUR haven.

With the almost infinite planetary aberrations, chances are no one has breached the atmosphere and set foot on the planet before you. All the indigenous species will be discovered by you and accredited as your discovery. You aren’t just a space explorer, you’re a botanist. An entomologist. A zoologist. A pioneer of a new frontier. Constructing a new province on a planet, replete with previously undiscovered species and indigenous flora, all named after you. That that sounds tyrannical, the experience is wonderfully validating.

NMS is probably the only game I’d ever describe as pleasant. In the absence of an overarching objective, purposeful narrative or even a central conflict to propel the exploration, much of the games incentive hinges on player autonomy. An intentional desire and inquisitiveness from the player to deviate from the designated course and explore that little green planet on the edge of the galaxy, simply because you can. Very few games facilitate such freedom or even tranquillity, whilst still remaining compelling. Despite substantial updates, NMS still won’t appeal to everyone. But its exactly what I needed.