My wife decides to go to the evening market with a couple of her buddies. The market is only open on weekend evenings and specialises in selling useless junk (from my expert perspective), although there are some fine food stalls. Anyway, I decline the kind offer of trailing around after three women hunting cheap bracelets, because I need to stay at home and attend to something.
Sixty one hours of frantic entertainment and I am nearing the end of the Grand Theft Auto IV story. Our hero has a choice of agreeing to undertake some work for an unreliable Russian gangster, or hunting him down. I choose to do the work, because there is money in it, but expect it is all going to turn out badly. It takes me most of the evening to work through and find out just how bad it is; but indeed it is a conclusion to the story that has had some in tears. Me? I just got some dust in my eyes, no actual emotion.
But finishing the storyline is less than 70% of the game; there is much more to be done before I can consider the adventure complete. Which is why my wife returns to find me in a motorcycle showroom pushing the eight motorbikes it contains into a tidy pile, and then driving two cars through the window and parking them next to the heap of bikes. I explain I am doing this so that I can fire a bazooka at the collection to gain an achievement award for blowing up ten vehicles in ten seconds. She gives me a look which is a perfect blend of pity and disdain; then flounces off to try on her new jewelry acquisitions.
Women, they have no sense of what is important in life.