Stress busters. I’ve tried them all. From lavender bath
salts to meditative yoga to compulsive chocolate digestive eating, I’m yet to
find the ideal solution.
After being set an essay that threatened to ruin my weekend,
desperate times called for desperate measures. Mere stress busting would not
do: I needed something that would smash it to smithereens. It was time to call
in the clay pigeon shooting club to help me let off a considerable amount of
steam.
Lest it be feared that I’m a potential threat to my fellow
students, I can assure you that everything was monitored and controlled by
excellent coaches, who provided an in-depth safety talk before letting us anywhere
near the weapons. Once outside, I was first to have a go. Let me tell you, those
guns are powerful machines, and not to be underestimated. I heaved it up on my
shoulder, waited for my target to be released, pulled the trigger – and missed
by a mile. “Oh, but it feels good, doesn’t it?” the coach said with a grin. A
few pathetic attempts later, I finally hit one. My stress had been blown to
pieces, and what was left of it lay scattered across the field in front of us.
“Atta girl!” the coach called out, giving me a mighty pat on the back.
I took a break to allow others to get their thrills, and
noticed my cheek getting sore. One of the more experienced shooters explained
that I probably wasn’t “cuddling” my gun properly. I never thought I would hear
the words “cuddle” and “gun” in the same sentence, but there you go. On my next
turn I clutched the gun close into my cheek and took aim – only to be stopped
by my coach to correct my posture. The best stance is, apparently, sticking out
your bottom and leaning slightly forward. Not the most ladylike of positions,
I’ll admit, but since I hit considerably more targets this time round, it was a
concession I was more than happy to make.
Having sorted out my stance, there were certain technical
tricks that would also help me. I’m no physics whizz kid, and the thought of
calculating the precise point to shoot so that you don’t miss the moving target
was enough to get my brain thoroughly muddled. “You’re over-complicating
things, my dear,” the coach reassured me. The trick is – so I’m told – to shoot
just slightly ahead of the target, so that it will fly into the shot and meet
its bitter end.
Imagining the clay pigeon that was now flying across the
sky, oblivious to the shot that would soon blast it apart, was in fact that
horrible supervisor who had set me the unwelcome essay, I followed the coach’s
instructions. As it collided with the shot I had fired and showered down in
fragments, I felt a sense of cruel gratification. When I got back to college I
still had to write the essay. But I nevertheless smirked with satisfaction
knowing, in my mind at least, that I’d taken my revenge.
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