defending my daughter's honour
"Mum, you mustn't hit him. Promise you won't hit him."
Thus, my daughter, whose boyfriend (6 feet 2, dark, good-looking, 35 years younger than me) is a fencer. Sabre is his preferred weapon so I rarely fence him, though we've bouted at foil once or twice. My son, two years younger and a foot shorter, takes him on from time to time - always at foil.
A few weeks back, the boyfriend was wielding an epee. "Want a bout?" I called. He smiled, I turned and, when I looked back, found he had melted away. The daughter's warnings restrained me - next time I didn't challenge him.
Today I was fencing badly. A new young woman faced me at foil - she's19 and a left-hander. I once had ideas for techniques against left-handers - no longer. She's quick too. Fencing epee, the remnants of my style fell away. Like one of the kids in the beginners' class I waved my sword at random and my point pierced the air.
Out of kilter, I couldn't judge anything: not distance nor conversation. All evening I hurled myself forward - metaphorically, literally - and had no sense of what I wanted to achieve. Then came a run when I hit without attaching; no points registered as my blade just scraped or touched my opponent's jacket, far too lightly to score.
What could I do but insist I fence the boyfriend?
In fantasies, I defend my daughter's honour. I've evil ideas too; if I need to win a point, I could suddenly shriek, "She's pregnant," and dash through his confusion to win. (No, I wouldn't Well, probably not. Thinking of my daughter, I wouldn't dare.)
The boyfriend is polite and well-brought up. He says "sorry" every time he hits - very lightly - and would plainly prefer not to hit me at all. I have no such scruples and happily hit him as often as I can. His reluctance reminds me of the opening of Under the Red Robe (does anyone else read Stanley J. Weyman?) in which the cynical and experienced anti-hero - a master fencer - takes on and kills a well-brought up young nobleman. In fantasy I stab the boyfriend with a brilliant hit and leave him dying on the road.
We move from practice to a bout. I win 5-3. He's so polite, I think he let me win.
Tomorrow he'll see my daughter. He's bound to tell her. When she gets home, she'll kill me.
Thus, my daughter, whose boyfriend (6 feet 2, dark, good-looking, 35 years younger than me) is a fencer. Sabre is his preferred weapon so I rarely fence him, though we've bouted at foil once or twice. My son, two years younger and a foot shorter, takes him on from time to time - always at foil.
A few weeks back, the boyfriend was wielding an epee. "Want a bout?" I called. He smiled, I turned and, when I looked back, found he had melted away. The daughter's warnings restrained me - next time I didn't challenge him.
Today I was fencing badly. A new young woman faced me at foil - she's19 and a left-hander. I once had ideas for techniques against left-handers - no longer. She's quick too. Fencing epee, the remnants of my style fell away. Like one of the kids in the beginners' class I waved my sword at random and my point pierced the air.
Out of kilter, I couldn't judge anything: not distance nor conversation. All evening I hurled myself forward - metaphorically, literally - and had no sense of what I wanted to achieve. Then came a run when I hit without attaching; no points registered as my blade just scraped or touched my opponent's jacket, far too lightly to score.
What could I do but insist I fence the boyfriend?
In fantasies, I defend my daughter's honour. I've evil ideas too; if I need to win a point, I could suddenly shriek, "She's pregnant," and dash through his confusion to win. (No, I wouldn't Well, probably not. Thinking of my daughter, I wouldn't dare.)
The boyfriend is polite and well-brought up. He says "sorry" every time he hits - very lightly - and would plainly prefer not to hit me at all. I have no such scruples and happily hit him as often as I can. His reluctance reminds me of the opening of Under the Red Robe (does anyone else read Stanley J. Weyman?) in which the cynical and experienced anti-hero - a master fencer - takes on and kills a well-brought up young nobleman. In fantasy I stab the boyfriend with a brilliant hit and leave him dying on the road.
We move from practice to a bout. I win 5-3. He's so polite, I think he let me win.
Tomorrow he'll see my daughter. He's bound to tell her. When she gets home, she'll kill me.
posted by kathz | 9:46 pm
2 Comments:
Wow, I didn't know epee could become a whole family drama:
"You've bruised him all along the ribs! They're already black." she accuses you.
"Wait a minute! How could know they're turning black? What's going on between you two exactly!" You retort.
Ahh the soap opera of epee.
I think I have fenced one lefty - disconcerting.
As for distracting the boyfriend, I recommend trying to pick him up DURING the bout - "Hey, you're pretty good looking, how do you feel about older women?" Should keep him very distracted.
A sequel to yesterday night'a fencing. The daughter got a text message from her boyfriend reading "I'm afraid I may have seriously injured your mum."
Hmmm.
That boy had better watch out. Next week the point will be "unbated and envenomed" - and I'll be reading lots more Staney J. Weyman for tips!
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