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<\/a>And there it was…<\/p><\/div>\n
The Forbearing Husband has quite a penchant for sporting arms, and\u00a0I am well used to various bits of weaponry\u00a0turning up in the mail. What was different this time was him\u00a0presenting me with the hardware (after he’d checked the chamber was empty of course) saying, ‘Here you go, the rifle you wanted’.<\/p>\n
Wait! Wanted a rifle? Me? Me! Lifelong pacifist and person who exclaims over cute baby chicks and bunnies? What extraordinary\u00a0thing had I said or done to prompt the Forbearing Husband to think I wanted\u00a0a gun? And, if I had said such a thing, how had I forgotten this?<\/p>\n
I found\u00a0a bright light, tied FH to a chair<\/a>, and\u00a0began\u00a0interrogating him. It’s okay, he quite liked it. I think it fitted into his ‘captured behind enemy lines by strong female lead, but I will never talk’ movie fantasies. I declined to wear camo though. And talk he did.<\/p>\n No persons, animals or ropes were harmed in this staging.<\/p><\/div>\n It was revealed that I had somehow\u00a0expressed gun owning ambitions to Bruce-Down-the-Road. I should explain, although presumably it is fairly self evident, that Bruce-Down-the-Road is a man named Bruce who lives down the road from our old house in West Auckland. He’s a 82+ year old\u00a0ex-farmer and man of adventure. Bruce spent his younger years snow skiing, water skiing, skin diving, snorkeling, spear fishing, and hunting. In between times he burnt off\u00a0bush, sprayed gorse, and built fences — as well as\u00a0a couple of houses. Bruce-Down-the-Road and I connected\u00a0over horses. He was an ace\u00a0horseman in his twenties and once rode all the way from Auckland to Taupo on his steed (whose name I forget, but let’s call him Zorro). It took three weeks he told\u00a0me, as I leant on his fence after pausing to say hello while I walked the dogs, and before he left Auckland he thought it wise to\u00a0learn how to shoe a\u00a0horse.<\/p>\n Bruce-Down-the-Road is laid up now with asbestosis from working\u00a0a factory job\u00a0back\u00a0in his teens, but he maintains an adventurous spirit, and still shoots pigeons from his front porch (shhh, don’t tell council). He has a ton of useful knowledge, endless\u00a0fascinating stories\u00a0and a\u00a0cat called\u00a0Pat — who is named after his previous cat, she was also Pat.<\/p>\n While I was back and forth last summer\u00a0getting\u00a0the old house ready to sell<\/a> Bruce\u00a0and I\u00a0had a routine. I would go over to his place on a Wednesday night and cook us both dinner. He\u00a0would bring out strawberries and cream for dessert. Then we’d sit, companionably drinking tea as he entertained me with\u00a0his reminiscences. Many of them involve his adventures while hunting, and this I suspect is how I came to ‘say’ I wanted a .22 rifle.\u00a0I imagine the convo went something like this:<\/p>\n Bruce-Down-the-Road<\/strong>: ‘…and then just as the wild boar aimed his tusk and charged I popped that bastard\u00a0with my [something, something] .22. Ah yes, sweet little gun that one was, never missed a shot. That’s the gun\u00a0you will\u00a0be wanting when you move to the farm’.* There we were, on different but enjoyably parallel tracks. And that my dears, is likely how I came to accidentally express interest in owning\u00a0a Norinco EM332\u00a0.22LR. I’m guessing the next time the Forbearing Husband dropped in on Bruce-Down-the-Road they got to talking about guns (as they generally do), and Bruce communicated\u00a0my unbridled enthusiasm.<\/p>\n I actually got 9\/10 shots on the target.<\/p><\/div>\n Since the Forbearing Husband had spent all that money under false pretenses I felt I should show some willing. We went down to the Seven Acre Wood for a bit of a plink. Forbearing Husband set up some targets, and this was my effort. Like Bruce said, a sweet little gun, never misses. See, even I got almost all of the bullets to hit the target.<\/p>\n Anyway, you’ll never guess… I quite\u00a0enjoyed\u00a0target shooting! Thanks Bruce-Down-the-Road for the unexpected weaponry. I think I’ll call my rifle\u00a0‘Pat’.<\/p>\n * Any technical improbabilities\u00a0in this re-telling\u00a0of Bruce-Down-the-Road’s story are entirely of my own devising (I mean, can you even kill a wild boar with a .22?).<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Those of you who know me, please be seated immediately, otherwise you may\u00a0fall over with\u00a0shock. Ready? I am now the owner of a .22 calibre rifle! And believe me,\u00a0I find that as surprising as you do. Let’s back\u00a0up a bit… Continue Reading <\/a>
\nChrissy B<\/strong>\u00a0[wanting to be enthusiastic, but listening mainly to the none gun bits]: ‘A .22 you say? Sounds just the thing’. ‘Now\u00a0tell me, how do\u00a0you cook a wild boar? I hear it can be\u00a0very nice\u00a0done in a\u00a0slow cooker with cider and bacon, but\u00a0what’s your favorite recipe?’.<\/p>\n<\/a>