The cold of interstellar space
All the bigger houses in Sam's neighbourhood had significant drawbacks, so I had a wee browse on Neighbourhood 2 to find him his ideal home. Aha! - a lovely gothic montrosity, complete with tapestries, rich rugs, a four poster bed, and vast amounts of space. But Sam couldn't move between neighbourhoods, so it was time for Sim No. 4.
I planned carefully for the birth of Sim the Fourth, Jimmy Joyce. Built up his bank account to over 250,000 Simoleans before purchasing the 'castle', having added an outdoor area at the second storey level so he could get a telescope. (Fun and skill booster, you see). Got him a dishwasher, pool table, trash compactor, piano, an array of comfy seats, a great big plasma TV and a top of the range stereo. Splendid. He had more money than he could possibly know what to do with, and all the time in the world to have fun and socialize. Sorted, at last.
All remained grand, and Jimmy was having a whale of a time. He'd chatted to a few neighbours, but preferred to keep his social levels healthy by buttering up a stray cat called Aristotle. Cats are better than people, you see. He was coping with the cooking, eating, bladder emptying, washing and kipping routine, and had oodles of spare time for studying and playing with such wonderful items as the computer and the chess set, allowing skill and fun scores to rise simultaneously.
And then, would you Adam and Eve it, there he was, out on his second storey platform, gazing at the starry sky through his telescope, learning logic and being jolly, when all of a sudden he was feckin well abducted by aliens.
I planned carefully for the birth of Sim the Fourth, Jimmy Joyce. Built up his bank account to over 250,000 Simoleans before purchasing the 'castle', having added an outdoor area at the second storey level so he could get a telescope. (Fun and skill booster, you see). Got him a dishwasher, pool table, trash compactor, piano, an array of comfy seats, a great big plasma TV and a top of the range stereo. Splendid. He had more money than he could possibly know what to do with, and all the time in the world to have fun and socialize. Sorted, at last.
All remained grand, and Jimmy was having a whale of a time. He'd chatted to a few neighbours, but preferred to keep his social levels healthy by buttering up a stray cat called Aristotle. Cats are better than people, you see. He was coping with the cooking, eating, bladder emptying, washing and kipping routine, and had oodles of spare time for studying and playing with such wonderful items as the computer and the chess set, allowing skill and fun scores to rise simultaneously.
And then, would you Adam and Eve it, there he was, out on his second storey platform, gazing at the starry sky through his telescope, learning logic and being jolly, when all of a sudden he was feckin well abducted by aliens.
posted by Cattie, Severin Books at 8:24 pm
1 Comments:
Aye, Brothmix, therein lies the problem. Him Indoors tells me that I'm playing the Sims like I've organised my life. 'Fun' is the lowest priority for a dour North East lass lik masel, an naturally must tak a back seat tae workin in a crappy job, cleanin oot cats' litter trays, an aye mindin tae flush the lavvie. (Would ye believe I actually got initial pleasure fae discoverin that Sims dinna need to hoover, go tae Tesco's, or drive in an oot o Aiberdeen on the A96 at rush-oor?!) Onywey, he said that a good tactic wis tae get a maid at 10 Simoleans an hour, which frees up some o yer Sim's time for ither things. "But", he added, shaking his head, "I bet you've got some deep-seated political objection to hiring a maid, because it's against your socialist principles, haven't you?" It's true. Before the discovery of the cheat, and hence the ability to have an Independently Wealthy Sim, I was approaching the whole game from far too realistic a perspective.
As for 'Fun' credits, well, I suspect you and I, Brothmix, are in the same boat. I wouldn't know where to start accumulating 'fun' in real life. Sadly, The Sims won't teach me any transferable skills in that area either, because they have affa queer ideas. They don't go to pubs, they don't criticise other folk as a hobby, and they don't get to watch Still Game, which would be my natural choices on the quest for 'fun'. Apparently, in the Sims, 'fun' can be achieved by chatting to your track-suit clad neighbour, or watching an Action film on yer big plasma telly, or making an Espresso. Eh?? Fit?? I'd rather shovel shite doon the Lang Stracht.
Perhaps my Sims inadequacy simply confirms my status as an Ootlin. There's something terribly wrang wi a body that creates a Sim of unlimited wealth, who nevertheless would rather spend weeks of Sim time cultivating the free friendship of a stray cat, rather than toddling off to the Pet Adoption Centre and simply and swiftly purchasing an equivalent animal for the price of 399 Simoleans. How sad is that?
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