Trust me, I can think of worse.
In another uncomfortable domestic contemporary scene, she bore witness to my steady-handed, flawless (and I mean flawless) sniper fire in some generic FPS (Blacklight: Tango Down, I think). I remember she was hanging washing in the lounge (okay, so that's a touch '70s telly', but bear with).
I turned my glance, and caught a face that couldn't have more indubitably read: 'How is he enjoying this? It's exactly like something very distressing on the news.'
So, that's it now. No more joyful dismembering or perspiring concentration on meticulous headshots. Unless it's one of the very rare weekends I'm home alone, it's game over for titillating carnage. I have a choice, and I choose decency.
Well, until CoD: Black Ops arrives.
I've heard that one's actually got a really good story.