Fall

The woods are dark. The wind is howling. I’m on the verge of screaming. I’m on the verge of tears. Only a few weeks ago I was making bold plans to step up my game, working out my targeting by way of scatter patterns.

I did that.

The scatter pattern is now dead centre and my score is up. I don’t wish to tempt fate, but I might have also (almost) beaten the third arrow problem as well.

So why am I walking home, through the dark, an hour before the scheduled end of the shoot, and why am I planning to ditch two sessions a week for one?

My mental health is never good. There are too many d**kheads in the world to mean I can live in peace. Archery helps, or it usually does, but not when the club d**khead is getting ever closer and closer to getting an arrow in the knee every week.

I’m talking about Creepy Harold. Of course I am. A few weeks ago he came and stood right behind me whilst I was shooting. Safety Rules No#3: You don’t do that- I’m getting annoyed by the constant staring whilst I’m trying to shoot. He went and started lecturing other James, who I was sharing a target with, and keeping him on the line for the entirety of the end. He’s not even committee or qualified or insured. He shouldn’t be up there.

Today might have been the last straw.

I don’t want him near me. I don’t want him near my equipment. Call it childish, but there’s no point being grown up if you can’t be childish sometimes. Often it’s the only way to deal with d**kheads like him. So. For the entirety of a half Portsmouth, a long half Portsmouth because there are a fair few people around today, he’s been on the other side of the hall. I’m sharing a target boss with four other people (taking it in turns to shoot) and so long as he stays far away I’ll be fine.

Then, as I’m on the line, I see somebody sneaking down the danger zone. I don’t want to look, but I’m tempted to tell him to ‘f’ off.’

I finish my shot, having already decided that enough is enough, and prepare to take Rhyddian down.

Grabbing my arrows, however, I see another crime. He was shooting at MY target. That enrages me. Not only is it rude, I’m sure there must be rules against it somewhere. It’s one thing to hit the neighbour accidentally (I do it all the time) but he’s gone and deliberately hedgehogged me.

That’s it. I’m done.

I’ve had enough of that nasty old… Yeah. Let’s call him what he is. I don’t care. I’ve had enough of that nasty old pervert. The club have been trying for years to get rid of him, but for me I’m done. I’m not coming back on Wednesdays anymore.

 

And then I go and buy new arrows two weeks before the big one, the next battle against Aberystwyth… And, oh shoot… I’ll need more than one session to break them in!

 

Expect sparks, young James.