Eat Your Heart Out Maid Marion

Okay, so I don't want to perpetuate the popular image of Maid Marion from a certain television show that I only used to watch to drool over Guy of Gisbourne*, but will ever sacrifice tradition to a reasonably catchy title.

And I did sort of get a nick-name from some of the blokes at the regional youth and family camp that makes the reference relevant.

I did Archery as an elective at the camp.

Lots of the blokes brought their children down, but I ended up being the only adult woman who had chosen this particular elective when many of the others were up at the main hall making craft. Others attended a discussion group, and a few were off try to get babies down for a little sleep.

I'm a bit of a freak.

I was idly sitting awaiting the start of proceeding when I recognised Peanut from over at "Graze". Then I recognised her big brother and dad, who had all come out for the day. I should not have been surprised because I know they go to one of the churches that was coming.

Having referred to Peanut by her given name, and having been corrected by dad, I began to wonder if he really wanted me to introduce him at lunchtime as "Yummy Hubby"? I should have asked.

But didn't.

He's a policeman. I didn't want to get him off-side.

I caught up with Crazy Sister who brought out the kids on Sunday. Got to see her new house with the huge kitchen and everything on the way home! (Seriously envious of the kitchen. And the beautiful glossy white architraves and skirting boards - but not of the red dirt. Red dirt goes everywhere!)

But thanks to Yummy Hubby who took the photos and to Crazy Sister who emailed them, I can share these with you. Yummy Hubby takes pretty impressive photos, and I love that my double chin is hidden by the angle. I should employ him as my personal photographer.

Nice instructor who was helping with a technique for drawing back that would not involve the sort of injury to which, as the only adult female, I was the only one susceptible.

Then he also helped with release technique that added some more POWER to my arrows (possibly helped by the fact I was no longer worried about the chance of injury). Then I no longer needed to aim higher than I wanted to hit.

How many of my arrows struck gold?

... You think you're so smart - but as a matter of fact I managed to be the first one (apart from the instructor) to hit gold, but also got another couple later on. Hence spending the next 24 hours being referred to as Maid Marion by one of the blokes.

It appears that archery is a sport that requires no ability to catch, throw, hit moving projectiles with an implement, run, be flexible or have any sort of cardio-vascular fitness. I should take it up.

And how many of my arrows missed the target entirely?
... Approximately None




* Was that bad casting or what?! Aren't you supposed to like Robin Hood? And not be relieved when the seriously irritating maid Marion finally can't be irritating anymore?

What? You mean I'm supposed to have value for worth of character? Oh. Yes, I suppose you're right. I mean, of course you are.