When we got our sexy gaming table – have I mentioned how sexy it is? – we got a couple of little extras.
We got a couple of Meeple-shaped things, a keyring and a magnet, and a couple of hand-crafted dice.
And they’re lovely. They really are. And they’re essentially marketing materials so it’s all good.
But the dice bother me.
They’re not right.
The two opposite sides if a die should add up to seven. These just do whatever they like. But they come from a place that makes furniture for nerds so I feel they should be right. And that they’re not causes ripples in the fabric of something, probably.
Not that we’d ever use them competitively, or even recreationally. Mainly because we wouldn’t get a look in.
Because Peppa’s really into them.
Buy her a toy laced with catnip and sure, she’ll play for a bit until the smell goes or whatever. Give her a coupke of free dice probably made from an off-cut if our sexy – oh so sexy – gaming table and she’s all for it. All the time. Always.
She’ll play with them on the table. Off the table. On the couch. In the couch. Under the couch. In doorways. Next to drinks. Close to expensive electrical equipment. Anywhere.
She doesn’t care that the two opposite faces don’t add up to seven. She just cares that if dice were part of her natural prey she would be iwning that shit, hard.
Unless you put one of those plastic bag clips in front of her, then all bets are off…