Gun

[smokingboot]

I've never been in a gun shop before. R's sister had bought us a clay pigeon shooting session for Christmas, a great gift in so much as it was something we would never think of getting for ourselves, but I wasn't looking forward to it. Wandering among all those weapons created with but one intention, I felt my aversion rising, and was scared too; not of recoil but of my legendary clumsiness. I've always been maladroit, the kind of child who falls off things and lands on their head or bumps the hoover into the skirting; my fear was of accidents, of hurting someone or literally shooting myself in the foot.

Then the teacher arrived, an old weathered gent with lots of humour and patience, and I handled my first shotgun, then spent the afternoon learning how to use it. To my delight, I wasn't a complete duffer, didn't embarrass myself, didn't hurt anybody else and came away proud and pleased. It was nice to feel confidence in my hands, given my miserable record with tennis/rounders etc. This was something I would like to do again, if I could be sure of having as brilliant a teacher. R was equally enthused and we came home full of comedy machismo, built a fire in the garden and sat there smoking cigars and drinking whiskey, sparks rising in the dark. Now I have the faintest of hangovers, and woodsmoke in my hair; I always forget how much I like that smell.