This week, Dad, brother, and I did a 2-hour shooting lesson at The West London Shooting School. Our teacher was Rupert*, who wore polished shoes, loved Boisdale’s, and had the voice of an old BBC newsreader.
He handed me a lightweight gun and informed me that women can have heavier guns, but I wasn’t that woman yet.
I held it up like a sack of onions over my shoulder. “No, no, no,” Rupert said. “Pretend you’re ordering something at the bar.” He then adjusted my head so it rested on the weapon. “There! That’s it! How does that feel?”
I would feel like Claudia Cardinale in Once Upon a Time in The West, except for the fact I was given a big green gilet to wear over my white Bardot top – so it wasn’t quite the look I was aiming for.
“Just imagine you are smothering butter on Nigella Lawson, slow…slow…slow…now BANG!” Rupert instructed Dad. Dad shoots, and the flying clay smashes in the air. “Top drawer!”
Then it was my turn. I hadn’t shot a gun since the 90s, and those were either laser or red spud guns. (Back before social media, when we used to fire potatoes at each other for fun).
As it turns out, I do not have a ‘good shot’. Partly because I kept closing my eyes when I pulled the trigger. But I still won because despite shooting fewer clays than the guys, I was awarded the most bonus points – and I took that undeserved crown unapologetically. As someone who can’t aim, kick, throw, catch, bowl, score…I take anything I can get.
We went from the shoot school to the Adam and Eve pub in Soho where we drank beer, (well they drank beer, I drank 0% Tanqueray)
Topped up with booze and competitive hunger, we headed to the casino to play 3 hand poker.
I quite liked the casino, there was a free bowl of nuts, and it meant I got to chat to another woman. Her name was Alice, and she was the dealer. I was sat between dad and my brother, and they kept doing these mini pep talks as the cards were dealt out. “This is going to be it.” They would say. Or, “I can smell the clubs. I can smell the cluuuubs!…”
I did note the quieter players at our table who weren’t as…expressive…as my family and wondered whether they found it irritating that their peaceful night of poker had been disrupted somewhat.
“No, Mary! You must throw the cards down like this when you lose!” Dad flung his hand, and 7 hearts, 4 clubs, and 2 spades flew across the table.
“But it makes a mess,” I said, as I neatly piled up my equally bad hand and thanked Alice as she took the pile away. Dad put his head in his hands in disappointment.
I showed as much success in my gambling as I did in my shooting. And so, I left The West under the moon tha
t night with an empty pocket, and a dark bruise on my chest.
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