The Sister has moved in with me for a while (I may have neglected to mention that The Housemate returned to America before Chrimas – just in case you thought I’d killed her and fed her to the cat), and we are making the most of the opportunity to regress to our childhood days of, well, watching TV together and playing board games.
Today, we decided to buy a couple of new games , as Sister for some reason refuses to play me at Scrabble, and Monopoly isn’t very good with just two people. Several arguments later, we returned from Smyth’s with Risk and Are You Smarter Than A 10 Year Old?. Having realised, to my dismay, that Sister has the intelligence of a 9-year-old and is therefore smarter than me, I hastily crammed that game back into the box and proceeded to set up Risk. What a fantastic game! (Obviously I won, or I wouldn’t have admitted to my earlier failure to beat the intellect of an 8-year-old child.)
Basically, you play on a map of the world, distributing your little army men and planning your attack strategies. The beauty of the game, as I see it, is its objective. In Scrabble, you’re aiming to have the highest score. In Monopoly, you’re aiming to have the most money. In Trivial Pursuit, you’re aiming to be the smartest. But the aim in Risk?
Total World Domination.
It is the perfect game for me: I have nothing else left to achieve in life. Ah, the elation that came with chasing the last troops out of Peru, and knowing that the world was mine! Sister glowered across the table at me as I wiped out her final defence line. “I’m sorry…” I said, biting my lip apologetically and feeling slightly guilty that the dice had been particularly unkind to her in that battle. She glared at me as she gently laid several horsemen to rest at the side of the board. “You’re not a BIT sorry!” she snapped.
Anyway, it passed an evening, and we managed to laugh through the bloodshed. Sister rose to get a drink as I was preparing to distribute my cavalry reinforcements on the board. “Hold your horses for a minute!” she exclaimed as she left the table. We dissolved into childish (8-and-9-year-old) giggles.
“You’ve been waiting to say that all night, haven’t you?” I asked enviously.