He really just couldn't help himself.

After a ropey start to the morning (Saturday a.m.=Sgt. Mjr. Mama, it wasn't pretty) d/Boy finally started talking to me again. Unfortunately it was to pester me into letting him teach me to play chess, all while I was trying to ensure he would be fed in short-order because the alternative was unthinkable.

Once the hunger demon had been calmed I agreed to learn. Let me set the scene.

Rain coming down from a bright sky (seriously), wood fire flickering gently, daughter sitting on the inferior couch computering away and d/Boy had set the chessboard up on the 'zebra' box and was explaining the starting moves. CK was sitting on the gold couch staring into space, a viable and constructive use of a Saturday afternoon.

I was a quick student and d/Boy a fairly handy teacher, holding onto his cool when I again asked which direction a pawn could take. CK was throwing his views in every so often as well . Things progressed apace and soon I was able to remember the moves most of the shapes made, although I was still getting into trouble for saying things like d/Boy's 'Bishop could eat my knight'. It was only once the game was well and truly under way did I notice the increased regularity of CK's contribution to the match.

His verbal contribution that was matched by his increasing proximity to the board. The input became more frequent and reached the complete depths when he actually started moving pieces and suggesting plays. For whatever reason his internal safety sensors were down and he was ignoring my 'shut up and let him do it' glares.

Even my assistant knew when it was time to take cover.

It was a tense match all the way to the end and, despite losing, I feel I must have acquited my self admirably as I was rewarded with the words 'You know, you played much better than I thought you would.'

We forgave CK his misdemeanours and enjoyed mini-yoyos handbaked Chez Trash.