Scared of the …Oh, this is getting dull.

Don’t try to tame me

Or blame me

Try and ask me “why”

When I want to retch

As I reach out and stretch

And fall plop! Right out of the sky

Can you do this? Have you tried to extend

Your miserable repertoire?

Oh, sorry I get it,

You already said it

On the Wii, you’re a superstar

On yet another diving expedition, or rather after, and during, the blessed sundowners, we took over the bar.  Rows and racks of tables and tequila, beer and bravado, and my Boyfriend says

“Hey, have you seen those whacky new consoles? They actually tell you what air you’ve got, what depth you’re at, with pictures and sound!  Can you believe this?  Sound!  Next thing we know, we’re gonna be sitting in our armchairs, pretending to dive!”

Uprorious laughter.  Was he a seer, a sort of scuba Nostradamus?  How did he guess how this was all going, way back in the early nineties?  How we laughed and jostled each other at the thought of armchair sports.  Imagine, we said, what next? we asked, why  don’t people just get out and do it?

The dangers, alas, and therein lies the issue, or is it, indeed?  Or laziness, dare I say it, on the part of the carer, to plonk the sponge-like mind in front of a screen, and let the computer programmer have his way?

So yes, my foot went down, and so did hers, but it’s not what you might think.  She doesn’t want the Wii, or the other mindless mind boxes, or anything other than riding free on a horse down a beach, hell for leather scared and shouting to the sky “Here I am!”

 

 

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