I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it over the decanter before, but the Middle Gel is very, very good at the Wii Mario-Cart game.  (Well really, all of teh gels are for that matter.)

Every so often, teh gel starts lobbying ol’ Robbo to play Mario-Cart with her, pointing out how much fun it would be and what a wonderful opportunity for father-daughter bonding.

Pfft.  As they say, “Pull the other one – it’s got bells on it”.   I wasn’t born yesterday.  The gel’s real idea of fun in these instances, as I know from bitter experience, is  to lure ol’ Dad out on the virtual track and then make a complete monkey of him.¹

How do I know this?  From her wild cackles of glee as I plunge off the track and into the virtual depths.  From her delight when, after I manage to get high up in the running for a few seconds, I come a cropper and fall back to the rear of the pack.  From her patronizing advice.  From her sniggering when, at the end of a race, my Luigi (who I always choose as a character), finishes dead last saying, “Awwww…Luigi lose!

And me with my short-sightedness, my arthritic fingers, my ignorance of the controls and the various track layouts.

(When I mention the latter, she bats her eyes and says, “Well, Dad, you just need to practice….”)

This, I’m pretty sure, is retaliation for my constantly nagging her about practicing her voice and keyboard lessons for choir.  Touché, indeed.

So much for the deference yoot owes to age.

Yes, I know she’s reading this.  And I hope she feels suitably contrite.


¹Mrs. R used to do the same thing in tennis.  She was her college team captain.  I’ve never been more than a casual duffer.  After a couple times facing off against her in mixed doubles, I vowed never again.