Rhyddian

This French lesson is capital letter BORING. Jaysus… I know there’s only two weeks of the course left but I’m still tempted to unpack Rhyddian and shoot myself in the head with a pencil. You really don’t have to follow the book so religiously, Mrs Teacher. Besides which, a bit of vocab learning might be better than this endless grammar.

Eight at last.

I can run off and take my frustrations out on a target face.

It is windy. It is so windy that English nannies have lost control of their umbrellas and are being blown across the horizon. It will be raining Poppins in Dublin tomorrow.

Arriving, handsomely windswept, I see there is some AU filming going on. I dodge the camera and sit in the corner, preparing Rhyddian.

I love my bow and I definitely think he may be the best thing I have ever purchased. When I got rid of all my possessions not so long ago Rhyddian was one of the few things I held on to. I couldn’t part with him for anything. If the apocalypse came, I’d be slinging Rhyddian across my back- A boy and his bow, his first bow. Rhyddian is not just a bit of sports equipment. He’s not some tool to be upgraded and changed every week just because some better limb design comes along. He’s my bow.

By ‘people’ I of course mean the super serious, super intimidating die hards who suck all the fun out of the sport.People* talk all this ridiculous stuff about recurve limbs and carbon fibre stabilisers and how you need to buy all this fancy, expensive equipment to shoot with, but I disagree. All you need is a good bow, one you can love.

Though today, Rhyddian appears to be letting the side down.

No… It’s me.

It’s my arm. My technique is wrong. I’m not pulling back with my shoulder. Captain Will has noticed and gives me some pointers to correct myself. I try, but the arrow goes way too high.

I find another solution… Lock my shoulder muscles before drawing. It works much better.