Well I'll be darned, I had no idea and smiled an inwards smile, I do like a passionate person.
"Be the gun," the instructor continued, showing me how to put my cheek on the stock of the gun and stare down its long barrel.
It was heavy holding the gun for the first time. I shivered with nerves and the biting wind of a Cornish February. The instructor calmly reassured my fears as I told him I was a bit scared and that I had never shot a gun before. It was a gun for goodness sake, I mean, I could turn around and hurt someone with it. I could miss and blow my foot off, I could accidentally hit an animal - I could potentially kill a person. That is a huge amount of power and I didn't feel very powerful at all.
"When you're ready, shout PULL and follow the clay - pull the trigger when you line up the clay and the bead at the end of the barrel." Everyone was watching. I felt a tiny bit sick.
"Pull!" I squeaked.
I fired the gun and it shot out of my shoulder and ricocheted into my bicep, missing the clay completely and stunning me with its force.
I obviously wasn't being the gun or maybe God had forgotten to make the space in my body for one - either way it hurt and I had to do it 29 more times.
But once I smashed one clay into tiny smithereens I was hooked - a shooting Mama - no clay was safe in my path.