Gerbil Workshop
On a recent exploration of Scott Street, in Surrey, I ran across a storefront which appeared to be a board game store. On slightly closer inspection, I could make out large boxes on shelves, rather than racks of PS3 jewel cases, so it looked promising. "Maybe I can check out the board game that won game of the year this year," I thought, as I parked my car, "and if this place is good, it's way closer to our house than Drexoll Games is. . . ."
When I walked through the door, however, I immediately knew I'd made a grave mistake. The centre of the room showcased two large tabletops, each sporting a miniature landscape filled with little painted lead miniatures.
Each of the three walls was adorned with the title "Warhammer," and one of several 10-millennium designations.
That's right — an exclusively tabletop miniature games store.
So, a quick aside — I don't really have that much against tabletop miniatures in general: it's more social and mentally engaging than slaying zombies in a first-person shooter, I suppose, and building the sets takes creativity. So, that's all cool. And in a games shop that has miniatures games along with board games and role-playing games I feel entirely comfortable.
But those shops which sell nothing but miniatures? Might as well have a Nothin' But Garlic Presses shop, or a bookstore which only sells fiction by 30-something authors. Maybe those aren't quite right. A pet store with nothing but gerbils? Maybe that's getting closer to the right idea.
At any rate, once I'd realized my mistake, my plan was to take a quick, respectful look around ("Ah, so THAT'S the new little dwarf guy with the giant axe. I should totally. . . . Oh damn, I forgot my wallet! Better go.") and discreetly leave.
My plan did not succeed.
"Good morning! What can I help you find?"
"Oh shit."
"What was that?"
"Oh nothing. I mean. [looking around meaningfully] Do you only sell miniatures games? No board games?" (I hoped this was direct enough.)
"That's right. Can I show you the new Warhammer series that just came out?"
"No, thanks. I'm not really that much into. . . ."
"Oh, no, I'm sure you'll dig this! You like strategy board games right? This is really the same thing, but better. Let me show. . . ."
At this point a virtual army of miniatures-gaming fanatics had flanked the store clerk guy on both sides, presumably ready to defend his honour with a level 4 crossbow attack, or some such thing. I really didn't want to give them the pleasure of living out any war tactics strategies at my expense.
"No, really, I'm sorry. I think I forgot — my wallet — I mean, I only brought enough cash for, uh — something's in my car — bye!"
And with that brilliant bit of elocution, I'd somehow edged my way past them all into the sidewalk.
I looked across the parking lot at the De Dutch pancake house, where I had planned to eat a late breakfast after my game store visit.
I hesitated. I looked back at the game shop, where the store clerk and his battalion looked out at me through the spotless glass storefront.
"You know, on second thought, I'm not sure what kind of range attack those guys have. Perhaps I should just eat somewhere else. . . ."
When I walked through the door, however, I immediately knew I'd made a grave mistake. The centre of the room showcased two large tabletops, each sporting a miniature landscape filled with little painted lead miniatures.
Each of the three walls was adorned with the title "Warhammer," and one of several 10-millennium designations.
That's right — an exclusively tabletop miniature games store.
So, a quick aside — I don't really have that much against tabletop miniatures in general: it's more social and mentally engaging than slaying zombies in a first-person shooter, I suppose, and building the sets takes creativity. So, that's all cool. And in a games shop that has miniatures games along with board games and role-playing games I feel entirely comfortable.
But those shops which sell nothing but miniatures? Might as well have a Nothin' But Garlic Presses shop, or a bookstore which only sells fiction by 30-something authors. Maybe those aren't quite right. A pet store with nothing but gerbils? Maybe that's getting closer to the right idea.
At any rate, once I'd realized my mistake, my plan was to take a quick, respectful look around ("Ah, so THAT'S the new little dwarf guy with the giant axe. I should totally. . . . Oh damn, I forgot my wallet! Better go.") and discreetly leave.
My plan did not succeed.
"Good morning! What can I help you find?"
"Oh shit."
"What was that?"
"Oh nothing. I mean. [looking around meaningfully] Do you only sell miniatures games? No board games?" (I hoped this was direct enough.)
"That's right. Can I show you the new Warhammer series that just came out?"
"No, thanks. I'm not really that much into. . . ."
"Oh, no, I'm sure you'll dig this! You like strategy board games right? This is really the same thing, but better. Let me show. . . ."
At this point a virtual army of miniatures-gaming fanatics had flanked the store clerk guy on both sides, presumably ready to defend his honour with a level 4 crossbow attack, or some such thing. I really didn't want to give them the pleasure of living out any war tactics strategies at my expense.
"No, really, I'm sorry. I think I forgot — my wallet — I mean, I only brought enough cash for, uh — something's in my car — bye!"
And with that brilliant bit of elocution, I'd somehow edged my way past them all into the sidewalk.
I looked across the parking lot at the De Dutch pancake house, where I had planned to eat a late breakfast after my game store visit.
I hesitated. I looked back at the game shop, where the store clerk and his battalion looked out at me through the spotless glass storefront.
"You know, on second thought, I'm not sure what kind of range attack those guys have. Perhaps I should just eat somewhere else. . . ."