Recently a woman ran over her boyfriend with her car (as opposed to her tractor or helicopter) – twice I might add – leaving him with brain damage; basically, she was convinced he was cheating at a computer game and this made her angry. Road rage angry. Her boyfriend, having thankfully recovered from his more serious injuries of a fractured skull and bruising to the brain, is now left with memory loss, headaches, dizzy spells, and concentration problems. And of course has a lifetime of rehabilitation to undergo. I'm thinking this woman is NOT someone you want to play angry birds with anytime soon. 

You see, here is yet another reason why I hate video games of any kind. My partner and I have an ongoing debate over the benefit of video games. Yes, he tries to tell me there is indeed a benefit and rattles on about hand-eye coordination and nonsense like that. I’m on the side of the fence that thinks that video games are destroying society's brain, concentration and social skills, not to mention are turning people into rat like junkies that sit in front of screens all day and lose a total grip on reality. And then of course jump in a car and run people over. Fine, perhaps Ms. Anger Issues had a fundamental problem with cheating – and who knows, maybe her partner was always the type to embezzle money in Monopoly – but as far as I can tell, most of these video games, be it on the computer, iPhone or an Xbox type apparatus mean the human playing them is in an altered state of some sort, and the end result is not always pretty. 

Take kids for example, have you ever seen their little eyes glaze over like a vegetable when they are playing their handheld Nintendo DS? It's a pretty frightening thing to witness. The entire Star Wars figuring collection could be on fire, but if they're not done with their turn, there is nothing pulling them away from that thing. Not to mention, try taking one of those handheld things away from them, or telling them they can only play it for a half hour after dinner. You’re going to hear the words, ‘please can I, can I, CANNNNNNNN I!!!!!!' more times than a parrot with Tourette’s. In fact, suddenly they forget there is a world out there, or other toys on the planet, and the only thing flashing before their myopic little eyes is Mario and Luigi.

My partner and I for the most part stay away from video games of any kind. Not because he doesn’t like them – in fact, he downright lusts after them – but because thankfully we know ourselves well enough to avoid situations that could end in one of us running over the other with our bike (we don’t have a car, thankfully). I kid, we’re not that bad. But he knows that I hate video games of any kind and refuse to play, and I know that the two of us competing at something other than Scrabble would end in a scene from War of the Roses. We are bad enough when he places a made-up six letter word on a triple word score at the eleventh hour (he loves making up words and then stares at you with this serious look of, yeah, I use ‘M-a-g-x-f-a’ everyday in conversation. Don’t you?)

So note to those of you out there desperate to engage in a little console play with your partner, a) for the love of god, don’t cheat, and b) hide the car keys. Just to be safe. Or take my advice and opt for a nice book instead. It may save you wearing a helmet for the rest of your life.

The King is walking. Yes, his royal highness is upright like the homo sapien that he is and damn proud of himself too. At the moment he is walking around like a drunk who has just scored the ultimate goal in a World Cup final against Germany (he plays for England of course). Both hands in the air, a massive smile on his face, and is usually chattering, oohing and squawking like a parrot on Red Bull as he careens across the room. It is a pretty cute sight to see. 

The thing is, while I’m profoundly happy that he has reached this milestone, it is also one of the more sobering things to have occurred in our household in the past year. Let me paint a picture shall I. Imagine an octopus on speed, and this octopus is the most curious, rambunctious and eager cephalopod ever to walk across one’s apartment. Okay, fine, octopuses (or octopi) don’t walk, and they are rarely found in London flats, but stay with me here. You see, once these little people start walking, suddenly their wing span seems to increase by the mile, not to mention their speed and accuracy. The King manages to reach things and swipe them down so quickly, I barely see him lift his arm to do so. Add in the sheer will of wanting that remote control way up on high and that darn thing will be in his hand sooner than later, if he has to take down the entire TV stand to get it. He has tried I assure you.

Then of course there are the unforeseen injuries with this newfound skill that are soon to turn my hair white. With the newly upright, if they are not lucky enough to lose balance and fall back on their ample behinds (let me tell you, the King has a lot of adorable junk in that trunk), they of course fall every other direction and often land like a contorted gymnast who’s had too much to drink (thank god they’re quite bendy little people). It’s not pretty especially when the King hits the floor, and gives me that look as if to say, ‘how could you let this happen?!’ I, needless to say, am riddled with guilt. Of course this also results in his forehead looking like an Appaloosa's behind and I fear that social services will hall me off in a wagon for having wood floors.

The funniest part about this whole process is the sheer look of pride on the King's face when he reaches his destination. Contrary to us older humans who have long past tired of walking (my partner is practically retired from recreational walking claiming his legs are too heavy), the King looks like he has won the toddler lottery for a lifetime supply of blueberries (the kid eats an obscene amount of blueberries to the point that his bum often looks like a smurf – okay okay, perhaps I need to limit his consumption, but it’s a super food!) 

So for now I shall try to put my exhaustion aside, find an open field and let this two-foot King run himself ragged until he’s sleeping fifteen hours a night. Now that would be even better than winning the lottery.