I live in a house with two games journalists and a children's book illustrator. Yesterday was my birthday, so there was bound to be some sort of creative present in the works. Right?
I arrive home frazzled, all tired out from a day where the yearly scales tipping over into 29 and I'm trying to outrun my life passing in front of my eyes. All I really want to do is cook dinner and play the feather-on-a-stick game with my cat. I get through the birthday pleasantries and look for our little furball, but something's amiss. There's a slight air of expectancy hanging in the air. Everyone is in the kitchen and they're staring at me. I'm wished a happy birthday and try to go to my room, but John stops me.
Uh-oh, I think. They're going to hug me. This is it. This is the moment where touching commences.
Instead Mr John Walker walks to the back of the kitchen, the lights flick off and a cake appears. The cake from the Portal game. They made me the cake from my favourite game of last year.
Stuff the cake, where'd you get the Bundaberg from?
Waitrose sell it. I suffered through six years (since I travelled through Australia) of inferior ginger beer before they finally imported it into this country.
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