SWING, BATTA BATTA BATTA! SA-WING BATTA!!

Three strikes and you’re out!

That’s how it’s supposed to roll, isn’t it?

But how many of you knew about this little ‘escape clause’?  The loophole that allows our elite AFL footballers to get away with drug use?

I didn’t, and I’m really pissed about it.

Nothing infuriates me more than this stupid three strikes policy.

The AFL will explain that three ‘three strikes’ give players an opportunity to seek help, counselling or rehabilitation.  A change to clean up and start again.  It’s so the players know that their lives won’t be ruined, that their careers won’t be over; that they have a chance at redemption. 

After all, everyone fucks up once in a while, don’t they?

It also gives the players a chance to get away with it.  To abuse the system.  Isn’t that the Aussie way?  Test the boundaries and see what we can get away with?  Rort the system?  Take advantage?

So basically, this is how the loophole works.  If you, as a player, advise the AFL or the medical staff that you have used drugs at a point in time where you’ve been tested (basically, telling them when they test you that they will find drugs in your system), then no ‘strikes’ will be recorded against you.

No strikes.

So, instead of being firm and saying ‘three strikes and it’s over, baby’, the AFL are saying ‘do what the fuck you like, as long as you tell us.’

Fuck me.

I will be the first person to say that I really know fuck all about AFL footy.  I don’t understand the game anymore; there are too many rules now.  Players are pulled up for I don’t fucken know what, and the flow of the game seems lost to me.  The days of long bombs, speckies, biffo, quick conversions and flowing games are gone.  I watch footy now, and I seriously don’t know what the fuck is going on.

Charlie hates watching the footy with me, because I’m forever ‘What happened?’ ‘What was that for?’ ‘What did he do wrong there?’ ‘WTF?’  I’d be shitty at me too.

It’s all just about money, muscles, sponsorship, television rights, tattoos, WAG’s and players fucking up their knees all the time.

Now, the real beast, who’s been quietly working in the shadows, manipulating, controlling, destroying, is starting to come into the light, and he’s casting a mighty big shadow across the game.

After all of this Lance Armstrong drug confession bullshit of late, I wouldn’t at all be surprised to learn that some players are using performance enhancing drugs.  Some have suffered great injuries, and may turn to it to improve their fitness.  Some aren’t strong enough or fast enough, so they’re turning to some pharmaceutical assistance.

I understand that.  I don’t accept it; but I get it. 

What I don’t get, is their need to take illicit, recreational drugs.  This is a completely different evil.

I could bang on here about Ben Cousins, and how drugs hooked him in and fucked up his life, but it would appear that, so far, his life is going just fine.  He fucked himself up, cleaned himself up (apparently), got back in the game and finished his career.

He basically got away with it. 

The irony here, is not once did the AFL produce a positive drug test for him.  Not once.  He bought the game into disrepute.  That was his only crime, and he was demonised for it.

Ironic that a lot of players who fuck up behind the wheel of a car, or get into fights and brawls, or glass and bash their partners, or assault women, or try to murder people still seem to be running around the paddock…

The AFL has explained that the life of a player is a difficult one.  There are immense pressures on their shoulders, and sometimes life can be incredibly stressful for them.

So? 

That’s part of the deal, isn’t it?  If you reckon you can perform at that level, then you better deliver.  It’s not all glory and fame my friends; the weight of expectation is upon you.  That’s life in the spotlight, I’m afraid.

I can appreciate that sometimes these young kids’ sign up for deals, and no one knows if they can handle it until the ball starts bouncing (pardon the pun).  For some of them, the pressure gets to them, and they seek comfort in whatever way they can.

Their young, fit, good looking, famous, and playing in a glamorous game.  They’d be like a beacon to the underworld; the dirty dogs that peddle their wares to the unprepared.  The innocent.  The weak.

That’s what it is.  The stress of the game can produce a mental weakness that needs comforting.  Peer pressure, performance pressure, public pressure; it will all contribute to the decision that kid makes when he accepts that ‘little something’ to take the edge off.

That little something that hooks him in, and ruins his life.

This is where things can become quite tragic.  These are the kids I feel sorry for.  They get swallowed up and spat out by the AFL mill.  Just another name in The Record that eventually, we will forget.

However, it could also be a case of simply seeking a good time.  Young bucks on the prowl, wanting to max their fun, and getting on the gear without thinking they’d ever get caught.

The fame swells them; they start believing and living the hype, and they feel ten foot tall and bulletproof.  Invincible.  Untouchable.

But they’re not. 

A fox can only run for so long before the dogs catch him.  Though, if those dogs are the AFL, when they do catch you, they’ll give you a second chance at life.

So, the foxes are safe.  And always will be, because they can confess their sins and be cleansed.

Only to do it all over again.

So the AFL is having a massive Drug Summit this week to discuss these very loopholes in the policy; the loopholes that are letting these cunning foxes slip through.

Here’s a suggestion: zero tolerance.  No ‘confessions’ to cleanse the soul.  Two strikes; you’re gone.

After the first strike, get counselling, rehabilitation, and guidance; whatever the fuck you need to get clean and get off the gear.  Stop socializing with the people that bring you down.  Change your life, clean yourself up, and take seriously the gift that you’ve been given, and the opportunity granted.

If there’s a second strike, see ya later.  No more changes.  Gone.

Harsh?  Yep.  It is, and it needs to be. 

If players understood the severity of the punishment, maybe they would think twice before fucking up, because clearly, the policy in place is not working properly.  Not if players can confess and clear the slate.  Not if players think they can get away with it.  Not if the foxes can escape through the loophole.

Now, I’m not making light of a drug addiction here.  It’s serious, and I completely understand that.  It’s an all-consuming, soul destroying disease that takes you over.  Drugs are a numbing agent, designed to take you away from the life you have, and help you forget.

Issues around severe drug use can run very, very deep, and I sympathise with people that are lost to it.  I really do.

However, these boys are playing with fire, and they won’t win.  It’ll take them, which is why they need to be careful.  Which is why they need to see and understand, the consequences of their choices.

What may just start as a good time, just partying and living life, can turn into something much more sinister.  This is where the first strike comes in.  Sorts the players from the addicts.  Helps the AFL and the club involved determine which direction needs to be taken.

It’s the fork in the road; one way is a slap on the hand with a simple ‘pull your head in’; another is rehab, counselling, etc.; and another one just leads to darkness.

The first strike is a chance to start again.

Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe I’m coming at it from a completely incorrect angle?  By my own confessions, I’m pretty ignorant about the game.  However, one must wonder what needs to be done to clean up the sport.  Maybe it’s too complex?  Maybe it all just needs to be simple.

And clean.

I will be watching the results of this Drug Summit very, very closely, as I, like quite a few other supporters, want to see some serious action toward change.

Peace out.

TWO WHITE LINES

How fucken hard is it to park in between two white fucken lines?

Seriously?

The number of times I go to a friggin supermarket or shopping centre car park, and some numb-nut has parked either right on one of the white lines or over it, and you can’t get your car in there, I’ve lost count of!

Am I alone here?  How fucken hard can it be?

I can do it.

Charlie, who parks like a retard, can do it.

Iris can do it, and she’s old and has a disability sticker.  Wtf?

Why can’t everyone?  Jebus really!

The other evening, I was driving through the very cramped car park in front of the Romsey IGA, and every time I think ‘ooohhh… there’s one!’ I realise that some dick has parked over the line!

And you know what else I noticed?  They were all friggin 4wd’s. 

You know how much I dislike non-country people and their 4wd’s.  Half of Romsey are try-hard wankers that live there because they like to say ‘I live in the country’, and drive brand new, shiny 4wd’s that never see any off-road action.

Spankers.

Spankers that clearly can’t park their shiny, un-dirty 4wd’s.

Four car parks the other day!  Four!  That’s how many spankers had fucked up one of the most basic of driving skills.  Four!

I drive an i30, for fucks sake!  I couldn’t squeeze her into those spaces even if I tried! I mean, I have to allow about twenty foot on the drivers side so I can squeeze my fat arse out of the car as it is, but really!

I would so love to scrape the sides of their car with mine, just to piss them off, but apart from the fact that it would fuck my insurance up, recent events have shown that the poor old i30 cannot take a punch (the flying rubber incident).

So why risk it.

I don’t know how pissed off you get with dumbarse parking, but I get really, really pissy about it.

My fave piss off, apart from those fucken parents-with-prams spaces (don’t get me going on that), is when an able-bodied person takes a disabled space.  Fuck that shits me.

Years ago, I nearly had a punch on with a dude at a shopping centre in Tarneit, because he pulled his shiny, flashy, hotted up ute into a disabled space right near the door, climbed out and strutted into the centre.  Big wanker he was.

I naturally pointed out the error of his ways, but he didn’t care.  However, he did care when I told security, and he was very impolitely told to move his fucken car.

How selfish do you have to be to do that?

And how selfish do you have to be to take up two fucken car spaces in a car park?  I mean… there’s nothing wrong with having a second bite if you pull in crooked or too far over, is there?  Just fucken get it right and think of everyone else, you selfish pricks.

I wish I had a series of big stickers that I could stick on these wankers cars, right on their windscreen, in the middle of the line of vision, that said ‘I’m a dickhead who can’t park properly’, or ‘I’m a selfish twat that takes the car spaces of disabled people’, or ‘I’m a wanker that thinks that because I live in the country, I must have this ridiculously shiny 4wd that will never see a shred of dirty in it’s entire life in my possession’.

Fuckers.

Learn to park!

Peace out.

LIVIN' THE DREAM!

When Jade first told us she wanted to move to Queensland, the first thing that went through my head was ‘I’ve just wasted eight years of my life waiting for my chance, and it was all for nothing.’

Eight years waiting for ‘my time’.  I was devastated.  Shattered.

You see, I’ve wanted to be a chef for many years now. 

I actually really fell in love with cooking when Charlie, Jade and I moved in together.  Suddenly, I was required to provide good quality, nutritious food for the family.  I had to cook for a child, and I had no fucken idea how really.

Like, it would be fair to say that my cooking skills at that time were basic.  Nothing flash (still don’t do anything flash).  Just practical food, but I wanted to learn more.

So the Lifestyle Channel became my best friend.  I would watch any cooking show of any kind; anything to learn how to do this properly.

I devoured cook books and cooking magazines, and started a massive collection of recipes.  Anything from savoury to baking, I did it. 

And I loved it.

I decided, after a couple of years with Charlie, that I wanted to take my life in a different direction; into the world of cooking.

I wanted to become a chef.

It’s funny how your life can de-rail though.  When you set your eyes on a goal, particularly a life changing goal, the universe can present many obstacles.  What defines us though, is how we handle those obstacles.

Me: I don’t think I handled those obstacles so well.  I think; I know that I shoved everything I wanted aside to accommodate others.  I failed myself, and right when Jade announced her live-changing decisions, I realised that I’d let myself down.

Right when I was set to make the change, all those years ago, I became sick.  Everything just ran off the rails for the next six months, and then I found myself in the middle of a move from a residential block in the centre of Broadford, to one hundred and ten acres in Tooborac (which I’m sure translates to bum-fuck-nowhere).

We were back in debt again, I was recovering from illness, and my chance to re-educate myself and follow a cooking path was lost somehow.

In the following few years, life presented many challenges to us (mainly through Jade), and suddenly, four years had passed, and I was no closer to my dream.

And it started to eat me up inside.

Charlie and I discussed it, and he asked me to wait.  Wait until the house was paid off, so I can re-educate myself with no financial constraints.

Combined with the fact that Jade asked if she could go to Assumption College for high school, my dream was yet again pushed aside.

This was no ones fault by my own.   I allowed it to happen.  I cannot blame anyone else for this.

So, we made a massive financial commitment to Jade’s high school education, and thus my dream was lost.  Again.

I seemed to spend years pushing my wishes aside to accommodate everyone else, and all I received in return was stress and ill health.

So when Jade said she wanted out, I realised two things.  One: that I’d wasted years waiting for my turn, and two: that I too must stand up for what I wanted in my life; to live my dream.

You see, it was a dream for Jade to go and live with her mother.  Something she’d wanted to do for many years, and I fully understand that.  Thankfully, we were in a position where we trusted her, and although unhappy about it, let her go.  If this is the dream she wanted to follow, who were we to stop her?

So why couldn’t I do the same thing?  Why couldn’t I follow my dream?

For six months, it chewed me up inside.  Why can’t I have my turn? Why can’t I follow my dream?  Why does everyone else in this house get the chance, but me?  Why am I the one that misses out? Why I’m I feeling so sorry for myself?

As the first half of last year dragged on, I found myself getting more and more depressed.  I was so unhappy.  I was sliding back into a dark place that I didn’t want to go, all because I was feeling left out and sorry for myself. 

So many things were piling on top of me.  The stress of Jade leaving, the impact on Charlie, work, dreams, friends, guilt for feeling selfish… and I was getting to breaking point.

Then one day I realised what the problem was.  Like a fucken epiphany! A bolt out of the blue!

I was angry. 

I was resentful that I was being made wait for my dream, whilst everyone around me, including Charlie, was living theirs.

Charlie’s always wanted acreage and cattle, and he had it.  He was living his dreams, and he said so on many occasions.  It was like salt into the wound, not that he would’ve had a clue.

Now Jade was living hers, which was awesome, but I was miserable.

So I made the decision.  I was going to do it.  I was going to take a punt and change my life.  Fuck waiting until the house was paid off!  At the rate I was going with my fucken health, I’d be dead before then!

The one thing that cancer taught me, was that life is too short to live with regrets.  You can’t afford to wait.  Grab life by the balls, and give it a good squeeze J

So I sat down with Charlie-Albert, told him I wasn’t waiting and I was going to look into it further.  I’ve given up a lot for him; I’ve supported his dreams, raised his child and supported her dreams too.  It’s my turn now. Deal with it. 

A month later, I was sitting in the office of a career advisor at Go Tafe in Shepparton, asking her to help me map out what I had to do to get into a chef’s uniform.

And it’s funny.  Here I was, expecting to be dealing with some inflexible, militant organisation that simply hammered standards and rules down my throat.

Instead, I got a young woman who wanted nothing more than to help me ‘live my dream’.  I will never forget her exact words: ‘I want to help you realise your dream.  We can do this, Lee.  We will get you there.’

I nearly fucken cried when she said it; I couldn’t believe it.  As silly as it sounds, it felt like the first time that someone actually gave a shit.  No more pushing my wishes aside; it was time to roll.

It’s funny what you give up to make others happy.  How much of yourself you sacrifice, and I tell you this; I wouldn’t change any of it, because if I did, I wouldn’t appreciate what I have now.

What’s that saying: what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger?

I played my cards with this career move very close to my chest, because I didn’t want to be flippant about it, and I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up (including mine), only to have it fall apart for some stupid reason.

Not that I was going to willingly let that happen this time.  No; this time, the universe was going to roll my way.

Six months later, I find myself looking at a letter from Go Tafe in Seymour (my closest campus), confirming my enrolment and that I have to attend an information night on the 31^st of January.

I’m in.

It’s happening.

And I’m shit scared!

Someone once said to me that it’s no good setting goals for yourself if they don’t scare you just a little bit.  They must be realistic, achievable and scary.

This new direction in my life fills the brief perfectly. J

The hardest thing for me though, apart from Jade leaving, and the things that’s possibly bought me down the most this year, is work.

I’ve been with the company I’m working for, for thirteen years.  Thirteen years, and I’ve seen and done just about everything at that place.  I can go no higher, and I can meet no more challenges there.  It’s time.

Not that it’s a bad place to work; quite the opposite.  The boys are great to work for, but I need something…more.

It’s like the fucken planets are aligning or something, because things are starting to fall into place for me.

Jade not being here enables me the freedom to change hours of work to suit school, because I don’t have to worry about getting her to a bus stop every morning.  I have the freedom to come and go as I please, which will flow around school beautifully.

Financially, I’m ready.  I hope.  I still need to work whilst studying, and will need to find something else upon finishing my course, but I’m ready.

Mentally; I’m ready for the change.  It’s time to do something that I think will make me happy. 

Time for me to start living my dream.

Time for other people around me to start supporting what I want to do with my life, and start taking a back seat, as I have done for so many years.

As selfish as it sounds, it’s time to find my happy.

Wish me luck.

Peace out.

THE GAP

So, it’s been a few weeks since Jade’s gone, and quite a few people have asked me what life is like post-Jade.

I guess, at this early stage, it’s still too hard to tell.  At this time, she’s normally on holidays in Queensland anyway, so it’s kind of normal.

However, I think when school starts back, the reality of her absence will really hit home.

At the moment, however, Charlie and I are discovering a few new things, not only about our lives, but each other.

It seems that we’ve discovered…freedom.  Freedom from deadlines, pick ups, school drops offs and pick ups and the like.  The rush and tear of school is…gone.

This is normal for school holidays, I know… but this is difference.  There is a definite sense of permanency to it.

In the past, we’ve had to leave home at a certain time in the morning (a majority of this time spent enduring countless eye rolling and mouthy attitude), to get to a bus stop at a certain time, so I can get to work on time.  It was such a stressful start to the day, because I’d spend a majority of it panicking that Jade wouldn’t be ready, or have one of her ‘teenage moments’ when she decided to shove her head up her arse and think of no one but herself, and fuck the consequences, which were invariably making me late for work.

Now, I leave an hour earlier for work, and go to the gym on the way, and leave the gym with plenty of time to get to work.  I pack an awesome breakfast and lunch for myself… floating around the house getting myself ready to roll, conversing with my beloved Charlie-Albert as I do so. There are no stresses, no fuss.  It just flows.

In the evenings, Charlie would stress about getting to Jade on time, so she didn’t overstay her welcome at her Aunt’s place.  He would leave work stressed about not having enough time at the gym to get to her, and cut his workouts short so he could pick her up on time. 

He was then stressed on the way home, because he had things to do and would rush through them, simply because he was in a stressed and rushed mood.

You can imagine what me stressed in the morning was like, and him stressed at night was like; quite conflicting for both of us.  Something that Jade was fully aware of, but didn’t really care about, because conflict was a comfort to her.

This was parenthood as we knew it. 

Not that we ever really complained or knew anything different.  Drop offs and picks ups were normal for us, as they are for every parent out there.  We’re not different to anyone else.

It’s just that now Jade’s gone, the peace is quite shocking.  The silence is deafening, as they say. J

However, the other thing that I’ve noticed, is the gap.  The gap between Charlie and myself.

I think we’ve spent eleven years battling to teach a child to deal with the hand that’s been dealt her, and handle the issues she carries, that we’ve forgotten each other.

We’ve clung to one another through these challenging years like a survivor clings to a life buoy in a storm, and we’ve just let the waves carry us gently away.  Away from one another.

I’ve said to my friends that I know this year will be a time for Charlie and I to reconnect, but I didn’t realise how fucken right I was.

That is our mission this year; to start again.

I said to him this evening that it’s like we’re dating again.  Spending quality time together, prioritising each other (cos now all we’ve got is each other) and nurturing our relationship.

I wonder if me pulling a splinter out of Charlie’s foot tonight is classed as ‘nurturing our relationship’? J

Anyway, work on our relationship we must. 

Our relationship is like a car; it will take us anywhere.  However, if we don’t maintain it, it will simply stop working.

Ha! It’s like we’ve done everything arse about. 

You see, a couple meet, start a relationship, maybe move in together, get married, have kids, fuck the kids off when their adults, and enjoy their twilights years together in their empty nest.

Charlie and I met, already had the kid, moved in together and became an instant family, got married (much to Charlie’s horror), and now have an empty nest when we’re still quite young really.  Except Charlie.  He’s an old fart (46) J 

All over the place.

So this year, Charlie and I are the priorities.  It’s time to reconnect.  We’ve focused on other things, and forgotten ourselves, so it’s time for a change.

2013 will be the year of living our dreams. 

Finding our happy.

Closing the gap.

Peace out.

EMPTY

I stand in the doorway of what was her room, and it looks so different now.

For one, it’s clean.  I can actually see the carpet, and the bed is neatly made. 

However, it’s devoid of personality.  Devoid of life. 

Empty.

I’ve vacuumed, dusted, remade the bed with fresh linen, de-cobwebbed and polished the mirrors. 

I’ve opened the windows and the blinds, and light fills this pretty, but empty room.

There are no books, cd’s, hair straightener, bits of make up or clothes all over the floor.

There is no music playing, no phone’s buzzing, notifying of a text.  No stuffed toys discarded; no mismatched shoes.

I close my eyes, and I can see her; hear her. 

I can see her sitting on the bed, Milo the stupid cat curled up at her feet, reading whatever novel is the latest in the hundred and something novels that she chews through a year.

I can smell her; the familiar smell of Hello Kitty Strawberries and Cream body spray, and milk and honey conditioner. 

I can hear Taylor, Britney, Christina, Rihanna, or whatever the fuck she’s into at the moment, quietly playing from her phone in its Dolly docking station.

But when I open my eyes, the room is just empty.

The mess is gone.  The clothes are gone.  The books are gone. 

Everything is gone.

There will be no more sleepovers in this room.  No more panicked mornings getting ready for school; looking for that missing shoe.  No more opening the door and flicking on the light to wake her up, so she can get ready for school.

There’ll be no getting ready to go out to parties or family functions any more.  No getting ready for formals or graduation…

No new hairstyles created, make up tested and fashion trends followed. 

No more secret phone calls with friends.  No more eating those chocolate that’ve been stashed away.

No more doors slammed because we want to be left alone.  No more having to knock before entering, because we respect her privacy. 

I sit on the edge of the bed, and as tears spill down my face, I wonder what she’s doing now.

Is her new room a mess?  Are there books, cd’s, clothes, magazines and makeup everywhere?

Has she gone shopping with her Christmas money yet and bought fifty billion more pieces of clothing that she doesn’t need?  Are they scattered around her everywhere?

I wanted to go shopping with her.  I liked going shopping with her, because I liked to see the joy on her face as she found something pretty and new to wear.

Is the pretty floral cushion I bought her from the Nagambie Market, the one she cuddled up to at night, on her bed?  Or is it discarded in a corner somewhere cos it contains memories she doesn’t want to acknowledge?

Is her blankie on the bed with her?  Little blue blankie with a teddy bear head, and satin trimming that she carried everywhere (even at fifteen). 

I look around the bare walls, and wonder if I can put some pictures or fairy lights up to make it pretty for when she comes to visit.

Maybe some nice bedside tables and lamps?  She didn’t want any of that when she was living here… maybe she would now?

Her polar fleece blanket with a picture of a horse on it is clean and hanging over the foot of the bed.  She forgot to take it with her.  I have to post it up.

I sit there for the longest time; listening to the quiet.  Listening to the memories that the silence provides.

Milo strolls into the room, and just sits in the centre of the floor.  He looks around the room, looks up at me and meows.  Where is she? He’s wondering.  Where has the mama gone?

‘Sorry mate.  She’s left us.’ I whisper, and he just meows back at me. 

I wonder how long before she fades from his memory?  Will she fade at all?

With a heavy sigh, I get up and follow Milo from the room, gently closing the door behind me.  I can’t bear to look in there and see the emptiness.  It’s so…so… strange.

So empty.

Then I push the door open again, because I like to see the room clean and fresh.  I like to see it filled with light, and sparkles reflecting and scattering from the little crystals hanging from her light shade.

Yes.  Some pictures.  Some tables and lamps.  This will give it a little life again.

A chance to start again.

SHOOTOUT AT ALLENBEE FIELDS

So, after the epic invasion of snakes over the past few weeks, Charlie is keen for me to use his shotgun again.

His thought process is that it’s better for me to try and kill a snake than let it go.

My thought process is fuck the snake.  It can do what it likes, and I’ll hide in the house.

Now, not only do I not want to use his stupid elephant gun, the fact that I cannot access his gun safe anyway is a minor issue as well.

You see, as I don’t have a gun licence, and the weapons at our property are not mine, I do not have a key to Charlie’s gun safe, nor do I know where he stores it. 

Nor do I want to.

Ignorance is bliss, and also a legal requirement.  If I knew where he kept the key, or how to access the safe, Charlie would get into shit loads of trouble.

Again, ignorance is bliss.

So my gorgeous cousin Mick comes for a visit, and brings his 410 with him.  Mick and Charlie (who have a love crush on each other – they get along so well), call it a girly shotgun.  Light, easy to use, and no major kick.

It’s perfect for wussy girls like me, and perfect for snakes.

Charlie said that if I try Mick’s 410 and can handle it comfortably, he will buy one, and I have a means to dispose of snakes.

Insert ‘I can’t access your gun safe anyway, you clown.  What’s the fucken point?’ 

Minor problem *rolls eyes*.

So the other afternoon, Kerri (Mick’s gorgeous partner), Iris and I are comfortably chatting in the kitchen, when Charlie declares that I have to give this fucken 410 a crack.

Great.

‘Do I have to?’ visions of me shooting clouds with the double barrel some time ago flash through my mind.

‘Yep.   I want to see if you can use it.’ Charlie says gently.

‘Okay.’ I sigh heavily, and drag my reluctant arse out of the chair. 

I still don’t see the point when I can’t access the weapon anyway.  Fuck me.

So I follow the boys outside, and Mick shows me how to use the gun.

‘Best give her a dry run with it first, Mick.’ Suggests Charlie, and Mick hands me the gun unloaded.  He explains about cocking it and firing and opening it to unload.  I have a couple of clicks of the gun, easy enough.

However, I know that firing an unloaded gun as far different to firing a loaded one.

Charlie walks out into the middle of the yard and places an empty beer can on the ground.  As he walks back, he says ‘Aim for that love.  Doesn’t matter if you miss. Just give it a go; see how you feel handling the gun.’

‘He’s right.  Don’t worry if you miss.  It’s just something to aim at.’  Mich echoes reassuringly.  ‘It’s just about getting a feel for the gun.’

I load the gun, as Mick has shown me, cock the trigger, and get the can in my sights.  I remember Charlie telling me not to put my finger on the trigger until I’m ready to actually fire, so I line this fucken thing up with my finger a mile away from the bang button.

The can is about twenty meters away from me, and Iris, Kerri, Mick and Charlie all take a step behind me, much to my comfort.

‘Don’t worry if you miss.  Just have a go.’ Charlie says again, and I gently squeeze the trigger.

With a loud bang and absolutely no kick, the girly shotty goes off, and the beer can bounces across the yard!  Everyone cheers because I’ve arsed my first shot.

Little do any of them realise that I’m a crack with a gun.  Mmmm…

‘Well done, sweetie!’ Charlie cries as I crack the gun and take the bullet out.  Mick wanders over to the can whilst I hold the gun open (safe, as Charlie calls it), waiting for him to return.

Mick and Charlie look at the bullet and discuss the type of bullet and how many fucken pellets are in it, and blaa blaa blaa… and considering the distance I was away from the gun, I’ve put about eight slugs into the can.

Apparently, I did well.  The boys are thrilled, and I just smile.

Whatevs.

Mick places the can about five meters away, and asks me to have another go, because it’s different shooting something much closer, apparently.

‘Now don’t stress if you miss, cos it’s a lot closer this time, and sometimes guns are sighted for further distances….’ Charlie starts to explain.  I know he’s just trying to reassure me, because he figures I’ll miss.

I load her up, have another crack and send the can dancing across the yard again.  This time, it’s just a mangled mess.

Mick just smiles at me, and I empty the gun and hand it back to him.  ‘That’s enough for me, I think.’ I smile, and he winks.

‘Well done sweetie!’ Charlie yells.  ‘Well done! You’ve done me proud! I’m really impressed!’

‘Well, she is awesome.’ Inserts Kerri with a laugh, and I give her a sly wink.

Later that evening, whilst we’re chilling on the verandah, the boys bring out their air rifles and line up a few water-filled beer cans in the yard.

They’re shooting at the cans, which are about twenty meters away, and narrowly missing.  They’re leaning against the verandah railing, taking ages to line up the cans before firing.

‘How hard can it be?’ I ask, giving them a bit of shit.  Naturally, a string of profanities follows, with the usual ‘well, you come and do better.’

Again, I drag my arse out of the comfort of the new Jack and Jill seats that Iris bought us for Christmas, and stroll over the end of the verandah where they’re set up.

Charlie hands me the air rifle, and I remember how to crack this and load her up.  Easy.

‘If you line the bottom of the V here, and the top of the barrel here,’ he points to various places on the gun, ‘and aim at the top third of the can, you should be right,’ he instructs, pointing at the two sights on the gun.

‘Well, that’s clearly working for you…’ I smirk.

‘Go fuck yourself.’ He mutters, as I take aim at the target.

‘You may want to lean on the railing to steady yourself…’ he suggests.

‘Naahhh… I’ll be right.’  I squeeze the trigger, hear the familiar crack of the air rifle, and the bullet hits ground about a foot above the cans. 

‘Missed that one by a mile.’ Charlie smirks as I reload. 

‘I’m just getting my eye in, thank you very much.’

‘Ah-huh.’ He says sarcastically as I load the air rifle again.  I line up the cans, squeeze the trigger, and knock over one of the little fuckers.

‘Get fucked!’ Charlie throws his hands in the air as I reload.  Mick just laughs.

I line the cans up again, and bang; knock another one over.

‘Oh c’mon!’ Charlie cries again in disbelief.

‘I think we have a closet sniper in our midst.’ Mick smiles, and the two girls watching cheer and laugh at the boys.

‘I can’t believe you arsed that…’ Charlie mutters.

‘Does the air rifle break skin?’ I ask innocently.

‘I’ll take the gun back, thanks.’ He said, and I happily hand it over to him.

‘See.’ I smile sweetly.  ‘I told you it wasn’t that hard.’

‘Get back in the kitchen where you belong.’ Charlie mutters, loading up the rifle again.

‘Go fuck yourself.’ I smirk, and return to my seat.

My job here is done.

Peace out.