Two days later, Junior is summoned to the living room.
"Boy, do you know what this is?"
"Sure. It's a PlayStation, Dad."
"That's right, lad. It's a PlayStation - the favourite tool of us Kids for generations. And you're gonna learn how to use it until you can do Tomb Raider in your sleep."
"But I'm not interested in 'doing Tomb Raider', or in carrying on the stupid family business."
"Don't talk nonsense, boy. You'll do as you're told. Now fetch me that Actua Soccer disc over there. And pick your feet up!"

Two hours later...
"Ha ha! Seven-nil! What's that, 15 games on the trot isn't it, Dad?"
"Hmph. Never mind that. You just run along and wash your hands for lunch."
The cat, who has been watching events with keen interest from a nearby window, studiously licks a paw.

Later that evening...
"I've been thinking."
"Yes, dear?"
From a chair in the dark, the cat's eyes glow knowingly, red with the coals of the fire.
"I... errr... don't think the boy's up to carrying on the family business after all. It's a tragedy, I know - the first time in centuries a Kid won't wield a controller with distinction - but he's all fingers and no thumbs, I tell you; and he didn't seem able to grasp any of what I tried to explain to him today. We should have put our foot down earlier. I told you all those books would addle his brain, and they have. They're just not healthy."
"Do you think we should get him checked out then? By a doctor, I mean"
"Errr... no, no, no, dear. I don't think that will be necessary."
"Oh. As long as you're sure..."
"I blame that school of his. They don't teach them anything these days."
"Yes dear."
"And those bloody Fentons."