Shoot like an Olympian

Dear Mum,

Dad and I have this month started training for Rio 2016.

We attended an archery experience day set amid an idyllic orchard, which included a series of themed targets, including woodland creatures and stuffed meerkats.

It began well when Dad was the only archer in a group of about 35 to hit a ten point target. He grew from strength to strength, channelling Robin Hood (perhaps thanks to you singing the Disney theme tune before we set off in the morning) as he destroyed creatures and Romans alike.

(Rest assured, no real animals or Romans were harmed in the making of this carnage.)

I have wanted to learn archery for some ten years. I can’t quite tell you why. Perhaps because women have a good track record – the Amazon tribe allegedly lopping off a breast to improve their aim in the Trojan War.

And it being one of the few sports in recent centuries in which it was socially acceptable for women to compete in – particularly if, in this instance, they kept both breasts attached.

I think there is also an appeal in its art and historical importance. Take the legendary taunting of two fingers, directed at the French. What’s not to like about a sport that encourages a rude gesture at your rival nation?

Back to modern day, I was a big disappointment. Our instructors couldn’t fathom why I kept missing the target – my frame was there, my shots were consistent, but could I hit the bugger of a meerkat?

No. Not so simples.

The day ended and I’m determined to keep practising.

The key downside to archery is that it’s not the kind of sport you can practice in your back garden. It would be a huge health and safety issue, not to mention our garden isn’t really big enough.

But there are definitely some advantages.

Take the boy next door, whose balls constantly appear over the fence and nestle themselves in our lawn. 

Accidentally of course. But no less irritating.

Perhaps a few arrows over into his garden wouldn’t go amiss. Through one of his tennis balls even.

Perhaps not even specifically tennis.

So I have decided that today is the day when I begin my mission to achieve my key aims in life, which, you will see below, are structured, logical and thus entirely achievable.

1)      Take up archery and compete in an Olympic games. Does not specifically have to be 2016, provided I win gold and have a good bawl on the podium. This will lead to...

2)     Who Do You Think You Are? inviting me to take part on the show. Fingers crossed we’re related to someone awesome, like Elizabeth I (pretty unlikely, I know) or Freddie Mercury. This will lead to...

3)     Strictly Come Dancing inviting me to take part on the show. Fingers crossed I don’t get paired with Vincent. This will lead to...

4)     Taking up tap dance again (giving it up after spraining my ankle by chasing the neighbour’s vicious cat in heels [me, not the cat] age 17, sober I hasten to add) for a stage show in the West End. This will lead to...

5)     Writing a biography of my life, which will become a bestseller, trumping Fifty Shades, and will be made into a film with Gemma Arterton playing yours truly.

Hmm... looking at the list I best get practicing. I need to source some tennis ball and stuffed meerkats, begin looking into a bit of our family history and avoid the neighbour’s cat... Or use it for target practice...

Land of hope and gold medals

Dear Mum,

As you and Dad moisten yourselves with suntan lotion and rum based cocktails in sunny St. Lucia, and Katy feasts on meatballs and listens to ABBA in Sweden, I am in the country’s capital where the world has turned its gaze to.

I was pretty iffy about the tour of the Olympic torch. This was, after all, a tradition introduced by Hitler, and so not a practice I really wanted to revel in.

When the torch passed our building and my colleagues flocked to the window, however, it seemed rather snooty not to join them.

When clapping my eyes upon the torch aboard the Gloriana, and the masses of people lined along the pavements with flags and banners, I jumped on the Olympic bandwagon, or Olympic barge, myself.

Pippa and I were unable to leave the TV set during the Olympic Opening Ceremony, pausing it if we required a wine top up, shushing one another if a favoured athlete appeared, and were both insistent that we must watch every country process through the stadium.

From there on the two of us can only be described as addicted.

The BBC Sport page, never before clicked by the yellowing mouse of my laptop, is now constantly open on my laptop and work computer and refreshed at regular intervals for updated medal tables and news feeds.

We text one another with excited messages, often in block capitals, (‘GOOOOOLLLLLLD!!!’ or ‘Phelps is a beast!!!!!!!!’), providing one another with updates if one of us has nipped to Tesco or is in the car and unable to text.

Not only have we both found a competitive streak we didn’t know we possessed but we have learned so much.

Why cyclists take it in turns to take the front position in the Veledrome. What ‘slalom’ means. What classifies a false start. Why Mitt Romney is a total butthead.

Admittedly, we got off to a bit of a wobbly start. Displaying the South Korean flag rather than the North Korean at the opening women’s football match was (excuse the pun) a total balls up. It was worthy of something in the satirical comedy Twenty Twelve.

And I’m not sure about the NHS extravaganza in the Olympics Opening Ceremony – I don’t want it to be a defining part of our national identity, thank you very much.

But as I type this we have 34 medals. 22 behind the US, 24 behind china. Not bad for a tiny island with a lovable but bumbling mayor of London and a reputation for obesity.  

But since Helen Glover and Heather Stanning crossed the first finish line in women’s pair rowing, the first British women to do so, and the gold medals have rained down on the British, it has been abundantly clear that the British have a real sense of camaraderie, both for their nation and their teammates, but also for other athletes.

The slapping of backs, the bumping of shoulders, the tapping of arses; it’s like a love-in at the Olympic park.

Seeing Andy Murray with a gold medal around his neck, watching the four English winners of the canoe slalom dive into the water, leaning toward the TV as Jessica Ennis crossed the finish line... it’s enough to make you want to take up sport.

As you well know, Dad and I are taking up archery. Perhaps one of us will be an Olympian yet.

Though I know Dad would like his 5”2” and slightly gobby daughter to pursue a career as a cox.

The day is young. I’m only 22. But even if my career as an athlete didn’t quite work out I would fully support by nation like the rest of the British people.

Though if I did win a gold medal I would absolutely dedicate it to Mitt Romney.