I'm back in England.

I had my final "With my kid in America" column already written. I'd covered the five-and-a-bit years that I'd spent in America, from being a harassed new dad, through the boredom of sitting at home with nothing to do whilst my son slept all day, to finding emulators, gaming communities, Way of the Rodent and a fantastic new hobby (which then turned into much more than just a mere hobby). I had visions of a triumphant return home, the prodigal son coming back to where he belonged, the tearful reunions, the welcoming parties from long-unseen friends. Things were going to be great.

Instead, there were no balloons or streamers. The champagne remains unopened in the fridge. The reunions still proved to be tearful, but they were tears spilled with mixed emotions. My youngest brother Jamie, about whom I've written a couple of times in my columns, had suddenly and tragically died at the age of just twenty-six.

Unless it's happened to you, you can't begin to imagine what kind of a blow that is. And when you're stuck on another continent, four thousand miles away, well, it's not just like a rusty dagger through the heart, it's like someone is standing there hitting that dagger with a sledgehammer, just to make sure they got you.

I have to admit, that one smarts a bit.

And yet, out of extreme adversity comes light, triumph, and a restoration in the faith we hold that humans, by and large, are an extremely decent lot. There I was, marooned with my family in the States, with no way of being able to afford plane tickets at such short notice. But there were people out there, people I'd never met in my life, that made it happen without so much as a second thought. That was extremely comforting to me at such a time, and even thinking about it now, a few months later, it still is.

And so I'm home again, and we're moving on. You have to move on, because you've still got a life of your own to lead, and it's pointless wasting it by sitting around, wallowing in misery, when someone you love has lost theirs. And, armed as I am with a new perspective on life, I don't intend to waste any of it, if I can help it. Still, there are bound to be a few moments of darkness, and in those moments, there needs to be an avenue of escapism. Gaming provides me with that avenue, but interestingly, it's also providing an escape for some of my immediate family, and that's something I wouldn't have expected.

My dad was always a bit of a gamer in the early heyday of the arcades, but he hasn't really played anything in years. My brother Steven, not so much, but he did indulge in a bit of Atari gaming, and he was always partial, as was my dad, to Galaxian in the arcades. Imagine the look of joy on their faces when I put MAME onto my brother's PC, and ran Galaxian for the first time. It was one of those priceless moments, and it was all the better for it being a relatively rare occasion where all three of us shared something that we loved equally. Although not as priceless as the moment I told Steven I'd just scored four times more with my first life than he'd ever managed in an entire game.

Purple bastard. And yet, I don't hate him. He brings joy to my family.

It's been fun watching my dad get into gaming all over again. He bought my son a PS2 for Christmas, and has since commandeered it for his own use for large segments of evenings. For example, last time he played a racing game was when he played Turbo in the arcades. Now, he's utterly addicted to Colin McRae Rally. And although he's approaching sixty, it warms me to see his child-like glee at shaving seconds off a personal best time. Likewise, his enthusiasm for Tiger Woods' Golf makes for lots of shared gaming time, the like of which we haven't had since the heady days of Leaderboard. An odd sort of silver lining for a cloud to have, I'll grant you, but I'll certainly take it.

My kid, Aidan, of course, still loves gaming, and is growing into it all the time. We've got a fair collection of UK PS2 games, all of which he is enjoying. I bought Need For Speed Most Wanted a few weeks back, and I didn't mention it to him because I thought it might be a bit beyond him at age five. But while I was at work he had his grandparents put it on for him, and I was somewhat stunned to come home from work and see him rounding a corner at 120MPH, getting a tap on the back end from another car and executing a perfect drift to speed away from his assailant. The boy's a gaming natural, and I'm the proudest of proud dads..

G'waaaan, son. Show 'em who's boss.

As for me, I'm a single parent for now, as my wife Lorraine tidies up her loose ends in America. Aidan's started school, which is interesting. He's having a great time there, and I'm having a fun time taking him, thanks to the game he invented. You see, we play “Pitfall!” on the way to school. If there are any twigs on the ground, they become logs that we have to jump over. If the pavement has been dug up at any time, those areas are tar pits that we have to quickly run across. If it's been raining then naturally the puddles become alligator ponds. Stepping off the pavement to cross the road is equivalent to going down the ladder in the video game. And best of all, if we find a penny or a five pence piece, that becomes the gold and the silver. You've got no idea how much this transforms a simple walk to school in the mornings, and it puts a bit of much-needed joy into my still healing heart. Kids - you have to love 'em.

Aargh! Christ, it's been raining again. And does my school uniform have to be so ugly?

So, the Yank saga is indeed over. It's been a hell of a ride for me, personally, and I've come out of the other side a different person in some ways. Wiser, more mature, less patient, more confident and, I think, with the foundations of an excellent family setup. Whether this column continues or not, I don't know. Perhaps it will, with a different name. But whatever happens, games have given me an invaluable and unbreakable bond with my kid, and this magazine has given me a creative outlet, a sense of direction, and something I can look back on proudly once Aidan gets a little older. I have much to be thankful for, and much to look forward to.

May 2006

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