As my lovely Nan used to say...

Having retired early due to what seems like the 12th viral horror I've suffered since Big Ben allowed 2009 to begin, my other (and often better, but not always) half had taken the opportunity for "a bit of pro evo".

Nothing unusual about that, I've known since our courting days that he's partial to a slice of PlayStation action and has a particular penchant for the football gaming phenomenon that is ProEvolution (FIFA is apparently not worthy of house-room).

Not that I understand the attraction, but hey, he accepts my crush on Gene Wilder, so fair's fair.

But when I shuffled into the living room on Wednesday night (to allow him to see that I was still suffering), I was agog.

Although I'd been greeted by the familiar sound of computer-made cheers, what sounds like John Motson commentating and sporadic synchronised referee's whistle, the context was - to use another of my Nan's favourites - all to hell.

There was my very intelligent husband (honestly), watching - that's watching, not participating in - a computer-generated game of football.

Before I began what I am sure will be a lengthy period of verbal abuse, I triple checked.

* Was he using some sort of headset allowing him to control the on-screen players with a slight twitch of the ear? No.
* DId he have a mini-version of the controller we all know and well, know? No
* Have Sony finally invented the mind-reading download we've all been waiting for? Surprisingly not, (but it can only be a matter of time... they invented my red laptop for crying out loud and it's BRILLIANT)

Digressing aside though, back to the craziness in hand.

Confident that I wasn't about to make an unholy arse of myself, I asked him what in God's name he was doing.

And I'll leave you with the reply which will be ringng in his ears after he asks me pretty much anything for the next six months.

"I'm on the bench".

(just a reminder... this is a Warwick University Graduate who is also a qualified accountant)