quaker fencer

wounded!

2011-02-26T00:07:00.003Z

That's an over-dramatic headline. Yes, I was hurt but not badly.

It was the first hit of the the first bout of the evening. I was against an experienced fencer whose hits usually land so lightly I don't feel them. The first thing I know is the electric alert telling me he's caught me on the arm or wrist again.

I've been trying to improve my guard. I'd like to think that's why he didn't get an arm hit. Instead his epée came just inside my upper arm and caught me hard - which would have mattered less if his blade hadn't slid inside my breast protector.

Breast protectors are unglamorous items. They look like white plastic saucers and slip into pockets in women's fencing jackets. There are more sophisticated protectors which cover most of the chest but I've never felt able to justify such an expense. This is the first time I've regretted the economy.

The second time was the second hit of the evening, which caught me in the same place. By then I was trying not to cry from the pain and very glad to be wearing a mask. I continued, shakily and not well, hoping my opponent hadn't noticed.

Most of my fencing for the rest of the evening was incompetent, though I managed a couple of decent hits, including one to the wrist. But I took some more hits that hurt more than usual, perhaps because the pain persisted. I was annoyed to be caught on the inside of my elbow which I seem to reveal as a target whenever I'm tiring. So much for my plans to try out a ceding parry or vary my style - I could feel myself repeating the same, failing moves.

There was one delight, however. Since the Spaniard returned home I've been the only woman regularly fencing epée. But this night there was a visitor - a woman epéeist who'd travelled some distance with her husband for an evening of fencing. She was an older woman too - obviously a better fencer and more experienced than me but, she reckoned, a bit out of practice. It was fun to fence someone I hadn't fenced before and I think we both enjoyed it. Unusually I had a slight advantage of height and reach so I didn't do too badly. When we stopped, we were both out of breath and smiling.

But the pain continued - and it still does, even though I can't see a bruise. I've been taking things easily. I can't fence next week but I'm determined to recover for the week that follows. I'm definitely not getting enough chances to stab people.

cat or sword?

2011-02-20T18:15:00.002Z

Once again I was looking forward to fencing. But the cat had been wheezing and needed a visit to the vet. And another visit to the vet. And x-rays.

I was once again feeling guilty - if the cat was ill, I had plainly done something wrong - or neglected to do something I should have done. "I never meant to have a cat," I muttered defensively, scratching Joe behind one ear.

He purred back. People don't have cats - cats have people. Joe decided some while ago - could it be three years back? - that he would be our cat. So I'm responsible for food, bills, trips to the vet and general cat-care.

It's usually my son who assists and, last fencing day, he collected Joe from the vet. "He's had x-rays," my son told me, "and a sedative."

I got home from work to find a sleepy, slightly confused cat and a son preparing to go out on a trip he'd arranged some time ago.

Plainly I couldn't leave Joe to go fencing. I settled down at home and tried to persuade Joe to eat his food, which had been sprinkled with white powder on the vet's recommendation. Joe didn't approve.

He began by trying to scrape the powder away with his paw. It didn't work. He tried sliding his bowl away and pretending I'd forgotten to feed him. He tried indignation and pathos. Finally he managed to turn the bowl over and spill its contents all over the floor.

Cat 1 - human 0 (the usual score).

We both had an early night.

waterbottles and library books

2011-02-13T08:54:00.004Z

If there are any readers left out there after my long absence, I apologise. I'm back. I shall try to post more frequently.

When New Year arrived, I contemplated giving up fencing. I was feeling my age. Compared with some veteran fencers I know, I was feeling much more than my age. I expect this to be a regular theme now. I have been fencing for several years and I doubt I can get faster. I don't learn as quickly as I did when I was young - and I was never quick at grasping physical manoeuvres.

I went to the club Christmas dinner. It was an enjoyable event. A splendidly large and shiny sword was presented to the Mistress-at-Arms - a new trophy since it's new to have several women competing in all three weapons. All the time I was thinking "This might be my last fencing occasion." I wasn't sure I had the energy or determination any more.

The following week saw me spending three hours in a long, tedious and not entirely pleasant meeting at work. It was hours till the first fencing club evening of the year. As I looked at my colleagues and listened to their words I was struck with the thought, "I want to stab someone." Since duels in the workplace are almost certainly against health and safety rules (and I didn't even have my epée with me) I thought it best to head to fencing. Just to be on the safe side, I signed up for another term.

My fencing has been erratic, even by my standards. Every so often I land a series of hits that please me - or even reach the score that is my secret target. I've had two or three one-to-one coaching sessions - one when I was so tired I could take nothing in and simply gave way to laughter at my own incompetence but at other times I've made some slight progress which pleases me.

Two coaches have attempted to instruct me in the ceding parry (which I persist in thinking of as the "seeding parry"). It's a splendidly strategic piece of swordplay in which the fencer appears to give in to an opponent's strength before suddenly changing the direction of the blade and launching an unexpected attack. On a good day, I can manage it in slow motion two times out of three. I don't think this is quite good enough to try using it at full speed in a bout but it's good to know how it works and perhaps, one day, the opportunity to use it will present itself. Meanwhile I continue to work on stance, lunges, point control - all the basics that drift if I don't keep thinking about them.

Work is, for me as for many people, a perpetual source of anxiety. In the current climate of cuts most people know that their jobs are at risk, whether directly or indirectly. Coming home after a particularly tough day, I consoled myself with the prospect of an evening's consensual stabbing. I got as far as changing into my breeches when I was presented with a disaster - my water bottle, which had spent the week in my back-pack with the rest of my kit, had leaked. My breeches weren't just damp - they were sodden. Nonetheless, I tried struggling into them in the hope that no-one would notice. They might, I reasoned, dry off as I cycled to the leisure centre.

This attempt at self-deception didn't last long. If I wore the wet breeches I would be dripping over the leisure centre floor. I wondered idly whether it would be safe when wired up for electric fencing but couldn't make up my mind. I struggled out of the breeches and laid them on the radiator in the vain hope that they'd dry in ten or fifteen minutes. They didn't. Later inspection of my water bottle showed that the thread on the screw top had perished in some way - it was no longer possible to tighten it.

I made up for my disappointment in fantasy fencing. Shocked by the current threats to public libraries, which have been my refuge and source of inspiration since childhood, I rejoined the local library and took part in the national Save Libraries day. Looking for books to borrow, I chanced on Isabel Allende's novel Zorro. I remembered thinking I'd like to read it when it came out - I've enjoyed other novels by Allende - but never got round to it. It's my current choice of bedtime reading and highly enjoyable, if a little sketchy on the finer details of fencing technique.

I also came across the best use of fencing in an advertisement. It helps that it includes Zinedine Zidane. Some people have suggested that it isn't really Zidane fencing or even that there's a switch from epée to sabre in the middle of the sequence. I refuse to believe any of it. Why wouldn't Zidane take up fencing now that he's retired from football? - and of course he'd be an epéeist.

Thrilled by all this fantasy fencing, I returned to the fencing club with renewed vigour - and a new water bottle. I bought it in a sale immediately after our local Save Libraries event, which attracted 400 people in addition to the 300-400 regular Saturday morning users - not bad for a suburban public library. I haven't seen a library so crowded since the days when I was sadly dependent on a mobile library which came on wheels and wobbled when anyone entered it.

I must have been over-excited by the prospect of saving libraries as I allowed the chef to persuade me into the purchase of a water bottle with a slightly unsuitable slogan. It seemed funny at the time but on club nights I find I'm hoping no-one will notice it and try to keep it in a position where the delightfully decorated message on the bottle faces the wall.

hits and misses

2010-12-18T15:25:00.006Z

For two weeks the snow and ice meant I couldn't fence. After my fall on black ice last January, I've been more hesitant than ever about venturing on frozen surfaces and the compacted snow topped with a fine layer of frozen heavy frost made walking – or staggering – difficult. I certainly didn't plan a precarious bike-ride over icy roads and cycle paths. Briefly I thought of calling a taxi, which might have been fine, but I had visions of serious skids. Every so often, advice would be issued on TV and radio. It was along the lines of the World War II posters that inquired, “Is your journey really necessary?” I had to concede that my journey to fencing was not really necessary. Besides, I had a cold.

The one-hit epée contest approached. So did the club competition but, as soon as I saw the date, I knew I couldn't take part. For once I had a prior engagement. I hesitated about the one-hit epée too.

I've never done well at one-hit contests. Sometimes I get an unexpected victory. More often the best consolation I get is a run of “double defeats” when simultaneous scores count as losses rather than, as in normal epée, points for both fencers. I had never tried one-hit epée when quite so tired and out of practice.

Part of the tiredness was the chef's fault – but perhaps it would be fairer to blame the chaos on the railways. The chef and I planned to attend a poetry reading and she kindly invited me to a pre-poetry meal. There was no way I would refuse the opportunity to sample the products of the chef's culinary genius so I accepted, even though it meant I would have to leave work after a mere eight hours, instead of my usual ten or eleven. Of course, it didn't work out. Chaos on the railways – combined with lack of information – meant I had to phone the chef who kindly postponed the meal until after the poetry. So the words of the poets – including the excellent Alexander Hutchison – were followed rather than preceded by a meal which included chestnut roast, braised fennel, a creamy mash, cheese, biscuits, cake and mince pies. There was wine too – and conversation. I didn't get to bed till some time after midnight which was less than ideal when I planned to get up shortly after 5.

I think I overslept. I had to rush for the train – at least the ice had briefly melted so that it was once more safe to run – and bought a hot breakfast to eat at my desk, using plastic cutlery. It wasn't an ideal start to the day. I suppose the day itself went better than I had expected but, when I got home, I had to tell myself determinedly that I would do the one-hit epée, even if I never fenced again after that. I got ready in a state of grim resignation, slung my sword-bag over my shoulder and trudged to the leisure centre.

Usually a couple of beginners take part in the one-hit epée. This year all the competitors were reasonably experienced fencers, including a few sabreurs and a foilist. There were twelve of us – just enough to set up a poule unique. “Eleven bouts,” I thought. “If I can just win one – or even two – I'll be content.” But looking at the opposition it didn't seem likely.

No-one bothered to set up an order for fencing. We had two pistes and, when someone suggested we just fence one another, in any order, and hand our results in, we agreed that would be sensible. I watched for a while and then someone suggested I fence the boy. Once upon a time I could beat the boy but he's been training almost non-stop, competing and taking advantage of any opportunities that offer. My advantage of height and reach (and longer sword) is usually cancelled by his speedy reactions, cunning deceptions and accurate attacks.

We faced each other on the piste and moved up and down. Neither of us launched an attack. I could see that the boy's wrist was showing, just slightly, below his guard. His blade pointed toward me but, in theory, if I could hit that little patch of wrist from below, I could score a hit. It had to be a trick. We moved backwards and forwards some more. The boy's wrist was still showing. I felt as though I was moving in slow motion when I began my attack. It wasn't a deep lunge - I don't do deep lunges – but it was just sufficient to take me below the level of his blade with my point aiming to his wrist. The boy didn't seem to move. He looked startled as my hit landed and I scored the point. He couldn't have been as startled as I was. “One point,” I thought. “If I can get one more I'll be satisfied.”

My next bout was against a coach – the only competitor older than me but someone I could never dream of beating in competition. I tried to put up some resistance as our blades clashed but somehow he got past me and hit me on the back. I was sure it was a good hit but it didn't register. We continued fencing. I went for his foot, missed, and then – convinced my opponent had trouble with his blade – took the opportunity to hit the floor. This allowed him to check his blade, which definitely wasn't registering hits, and to borrow a replacement.

The uncertainty over the blade must have had an effect on the coach. I told him I reckoned it had been a good hit but of course a hit can't be allowed just because a fencer thinks it has registered. We had to start again. The coach came toward me and, as he began a lunge, my blade, almost of its own accord, went for his knee and scored a hit. I had the two hits I wanted – and now, I decided, I would quite like to score a few more.

It didn't happen quite as I would have wanted. I lost the next two bouts, both against sabreurs. One fleched me and I was cross with myself that I didn't react faster though, given his height, it probably wouldn't have helped. And while for a moment I thought I might catch the sabreuse with a quick counter-attack, her quick reactions and experience led her to victory. “That's it,” I thought. “Two hits. Not too bad.” But I caught the next sabreur on the mask, just as he launched a sabre-style attack.

That was three hits – as many as I'd ever scored in one-hit epée. Perhaps the tiredness was helping me – forcing me to rely on instinct and memory. Or perhaps the other fencers were tired too. In the end I won three more bouts, all against fencers who are much better than me and who have helped me with my fencing. I lost against the foilist, against a young epéeist and a fencer of foil and epée who I really should have beaten.

That's when the Spaniard turned up. She looked so disappointed at missing the one-hit epée that someone at once suggested that, if she wanted, she could occupy a piste and fence everyone in turn while the final bouts on the score-sheet took place on the other piste. It was her last chance to fence us – she's going back to Spain next week – and she was delighted to take up the offer.

I fenced her first. She beat me. She fenced the coach. She beat him. It was the beginning of a run in her favour. The boy, at the head of the poule sheet, determined to fence her last. He watched her overtake his total. I think she had achieved nine wins out of eleven when she fenced the boy. She picked up a small sword so that she would fence him with a weapon of the same length. It was a difficult and protracted bout, both fencing energetically and each trying to trick the other as the rest of us watched. The final hits seemed simultaneous but the light gave victory to the Spaniard, who instantly hugged the boy. He's still young enough to find hugs from a beautiful young woman embarrassing and squirmed away.

Then there were photos of the Spaniard with her trophy (the traditional chocolate Santa) and the rest of is clustered around her. Coming home, I wondered if I would ever fence again. Gloomy reflections seem appropriate to my age, the cold and the year's end. If that was the last time, it wouldn't be too bad. Six wins out of twelve is more than respectable and, given the double defeats others experienced, probably places me, for the first time ever, in the top half of the score-sheet.

tiredness and anger

2010-11-24T13:13:00.005Z

It's hard to find time and energy to fence – and harder still to maintain this blog. I need to work, sleep and fulfil various other human obligations. But I continue to fence each week and the blog needs an update.

There have been good weeks. On one occasion, angry with the government, I ended the evening by fencing a relative beginner who is much taller than me and half my age. We've fenced before and are usually evenly matched. On this occasion we'd been discussing politics before the bout, sharing our views on the folly of particular government cuts. “I'm going to pretend you're the cabinet,” I told him. It seemed slightly unfair on him, since he hadn't said a word in their defence. However I'd been criticised for lack of aggression earlier in the evening and, if fencing the cabinet couldn't help, nothing could.

Apart from fencing, I'm a pacifist. It's more than thirty years since I decided on non-violence and, although I still get angry on occasion, restraint has become a habit. But I'm very angry with the government and, since starting fencing, I've made an exception for consensual violence.

I surprised myself. “Take that, Cameron!” I shouted. “That's for you, Clegg!” My first hit to my opponent's head was accompanied by the cry, “That's one of your brains, Willetts – now I'll get the other.” (And I did.)

I have to report that I didn't vanquish the entire cabinet. However my unexpected aggression must have unnerved my opponent. I beat him 15 – 4.

That was a one-off. However I seem to be fencing a little better, at least on some occasions. The following week I beat the same opponent 15 – 12, even though he had the advantage of not representing the British cabinet. And against a young woman who usually beats me with ease, even though she's mostly a foilist, I pulled back from 5 – 0 to fence her on almost level terms. She couldn't see where she was going wrong. Nor could I, but I was concentrating on keeping my distance right and waiting for the best time to strike. We reached 14 – 14. I did my best but she was faster and took the final point, much to her relief. It may have been a defeat but I was thrilled by the best score I'd ever had against her – and that I'd made her make such an effort to win.

Most of my fencing has been less exciting. I go to the leisure centre on foot or on my bike. Sometimes it rains. Usually I find myself matched with much against more experienced fencers - or better fencers - who beat me easily but help with useful advice. I ref. Sometimes the electronic equipment fails but mostly it works.

There have been highlights. One fencer gave a talk on her experience fencing at the Commonwealth Championships in Australia. And a visiting fencer gave me advice I've never heard before: "Keep it simple." It sounds good and plausible but it still depends on speed and accuracy. There's much more to do. And I'm getting older.

twilight fencer

2010-11-02T21:07:00.006Z

I took two weeks off. Off fencing, that is - I still had to work. A bad cold hit me at the wrong time. I'd have had to be a good deal worse to stay home in the daytime. I sneezed, coughed and spluttered over colleagues through the first week but decided that sneezing into a fencing mask would be too unpleasant.

As the sneezing subsided, I convinced myself I was better. I decided it was my responsibility to take the chef to the Goose Fair, said to be the largest and oldest travelling fair in Europe. We encountered its thrills and horrors with courage, even admiring the terrifying puppy which dwelt in the depths of the Maze of Terror - the pup of the Baskervilles, perhaps.

By the end of the day I was more tired than usual and the following week was exhausting. I was also losing my voice. For a second time I missed fencing and chose an early night instead.

It's hard to go back to fencing after two weeks off. I was still tired - too tired to cycle - and felt flabbily unfit. But I felt that, if I didn't fence a little, I'd never go back again.

When I arrived I was able to congratulate a sabreuse who had fenced in the Commonwealth championships and a coach who had reached the last eight in the World Veterans. But there were many absentees. I don't know if there was an outbreak of autumn illnesses or whether the new Age of Austerity was taking effect - many of us are closing in on ourselves and staying home more as though to hug our worries to ourselves. Enthusiasm was low and there was a distinct lack of epéeists. I wondered if the walk had been enough for me. I had done my best. Now I could go home without having to fence.

At this point a coach offered me an epée lesson. I felt slightly feeble but I reckoned the lesson could end at any time if I was inclined. It began badly but gradually the coach's patience helped me focus on my guard while looking for the best moment to attack. I began to keep my arm steady and slide my blade over or under his guard while angling towards wrist and forearm. Perhaps my tiredness was helping me concentrate - there was no space for any non-fencing ideas in my tired brain. My distance seemed slightly better too.

Back in the main hall, I was invited to fence by a strong, helpful opponent - just to ten. "Be aggressive," he told me, as he always does. "I want to see you move fast, make an effort."

I checked my guard - tried to adjust it, and he told me where I was going wrong. That gave me the chance to adjust to fencing a left-hander.

As we began, I realised I had nothing to worry about. I couldn't expect to win the bout but I was going to try my hardest. Once again the tiredness was on my side, letting me concentrate on distance and varied actions. I continued to make silly mistakes - I wish I could bout without occasionally charging onto my opponent's blade - but I was getting unexpected hits, one to the wrist. "Good hit," my opponent said, encouragingly.

He won 10 - 7 but I was fighting till the end. It was probably the best score I'd ever managed against him. "That's the best I've ever seen you fence," he said approvingly and I glowed with pleasure and exhaustion. I still wasn't used to the exertion.

Then the club president invited me to fence. Epée may be his third weapon but on a good day he can beat most club fencers. I prepared to be crushed - but to do my best. All I could do was take quick advantage of his few unforced errors. I managed a couple of hits, one to his foot - and he managed quite a few on me. But there was something wrong with the electrics. Some hits registered, some didn't. We couldn't work out what was wrong and in the end, fed up, we walked away leaving the match incomplete.

"I gave you those points," he teased - at least, I think he was teasing. Then he changed tack. "No - I didn't - you took them. Your blade went right inside my shoe." He mimicked the motion with his own sword, showing how my blade had glided past his ankle.

Was it luck? Probably. Even if I managed, he wasn't fencing with the determination he shows in competition. But I felt I'd done well, considering the time off. I rewarded myself by cadging a lift home.

dumb-bells

2010-10-03T19:18:00.002+01:00

I hesitated over the dumb-bells.

It wasn't that they were heavy. They weren't. Only 5lbs for the two of them. Enough to begin with. I don't want to be overly muscular but felt I needed to do something to counter the flab and weakness in my arms. It was the acrobat who suggested weight-training, seconded by the chef, who has added weight-training to her schedule of exercise. I tried the chef's weights which were pleasantly heavy but compact – they seemed to be the sort of thing I wanted: neat and in a neutral shade.

I should have asked where to buy them but was embarrassed by the whole idea. I wandered into sports shops … and quickly wandered out again. The eager young people who knew their way around were fine but I didn't want to be targeted by enthusiastic shop assistant who were bound to ask what I wanted. It was too embarrassing. I didn't seem a suitable candidate for weight-training and felt sure they would snigger in private if they didn't burst out laughing hysterically at my request.

In the end I started leafing through the Argos catalogue. The range was puzzling to the point of exasperation. I had a choice: I could either leave the shop and give up or I could make an attempt to purchase the cheapest weights in the shop. Then came a further problem: the colour.

On the whole I'm not too fussy about colours. The weights weren't meant to be ornamental and, if anyone had asked me, I'd have said I didn't mind what colour they were, so long as they worked. But these were far larger than the chef's neat weights. They were shaped like dumb-bells. And they were Barbie pink.

I detest Barbie pink. It reminds me of voyages to Toys'r'us where the boys' aisle was full of camouflage gear and fake weapons while the girls' aisle glowed in a violent excess of parodic femininity. There were dolls on tiptoe whose clothes and figures made Dolly Parton look like a dowdy frump. There were sinister plastic smilers who had no existence below the neck and whose sole function was to display hairstyles of absurd elaboration. The Barbie pinkness of the aisle was so bright and commanding that I wanted to flee from the shop – but my daughter insisted on admiring femininity in its most sinister manifestations.

I tried to persuade myself that there was nothing wrong with Barbie-pink dumb-bells but twice I left the shop. But the weak flabbiness of my arms persisted. In the end, I succumbed. I wrote the catalogue number on the slip provided and handed it to the assistant.

“Dumb-bells?” she said curiously (and loudly).

I began to make excuses at once. “I think it's good,” she said. “I should get some.”

She was about twenty and seemed very trim. She must have been trying to cheer me up. I collected my dumb-bells, put them in the bicycle basket and cycled home. Then I looked on youtube for helpful, easy exercises.

I manage to exercise a little most days. I'm not sure it's making much difference but at least I'm trying. Sometimes I try to fence well too – but I don't win.

Oh well.

Fortunately the dumb-bells fit neatly in their box, which isn't pink.

Dalwhinnie and defeats

2010-09-16T14:14:00.004+01:00

It was good to see the chef again and lovely to meet the acrobat at last – she's even nicer than emails and letters suggest and not at all intimidating, whatever the chef may say.

We were in a pub – the best pub in the county according to recent awards. The acrobat and I were sampling the beer while the chef, who has the misfortune to dislike beer, sipped demurely at a glass of wine. It was pub quiz night - it often is - and we hoped for an impressive victory. After all, the chef and I had won once before and had come quite close on other occasions.

We'd waited quite some time for the quiz to begin. The chef got bored with white wine and moved on to whisky, choosing a Dalwhinnie - the acrobat and I weren't familiar with the name so sampled the chef's drink. Then we decided - I don't know whose idea it was - to combine our halves of beer (we'd sampled London Pride, Bullion and Absolution) with whisky chasers. The combination was delicious but I decided it would be prudent to share a cheese board and olives as well.

The quiz didn't begin well. The pub consists of a number of small bars. We had chosen the smallest and cosiest which was also, unfortunately, the one with the defective speaker. There were nine or ten of in the bar, straining to hear the questions. As it's a friendly quiz we were happy to share our views on what the quiz-master had said with the other team in the room.

I don't think we would have done well at the quiz in any circumstances. The questions were not those we would have chosen. There was nothing, for instance, on disgust in 21st century French and German fiction; nothing on the intricacies of poetic forms and nothing on circus skills or recent Australian politics. And I'm sorry to report that there wasn't a single question on fencing. Instead the quiz-setter seemed more interested in golf, girl bands and the career of Elton John.

We did our best but the quiz did not go as planned. The chef and I failed to impress the acrobat with our erudition, even when the barman came to fix the defective speaker. We still didn't know all the answers. The combination of beer and whisky may have rendered our answers illegible. Nonetheless it was a happy, friendly evening (much better than a quiz victory) and afterwards I slept soundly if more briefly than I would have wished.

I tried to persuade the chef to return to fencing - and the acrobat joined in with her encouragement - but without success. She might have enjoyed the following evening had she come to the leisure centre. She would certainly have beaten me.

Perhaps I'm too old to combine beer and whisky in the customary way - or perhaps I should do so only when I'm sure of a good night's sleep. I had an early start the next day and a busy day at work. By the time I reached fencing I felt as though I were moving through mud.

Everyone beat me. Even if they slowed down and moved very deliberately I rarely scored more than a double hit. I think it was the whisky ... or the beer ... or both. Still, the cycle ride to and from fencing was very pleasant in the cool, dark evening.

cycling with swords - and a sad sequel

2010-09-11T08:56:00.004+01:00

The wonderful bike repair-man round the corner serviced my bike, which needed a new brake cable and brighter lights. I set off with slight uncertainty - I hadn't ridden it since my fall in January - but, even with the tricky load of heavy back-pack and carefully-balanced sword-bag, it seemed as though I was gliding along the cycle track. I was filled with pleasurable anticipation as I approached the leisure centre.

I was slightly late for the warm-up session so was still wearing my jeans as I joined the end of the footwork practice - fortunately my lunges aren't deep enough to cause any embarrassing tears in the fabric. I felt so good at having cycled and warmed up that I was on a plateau of calm contentment as I headed off to change into breeches.

The calm continued as I met the ex-foilist in a return bout, and I quickly learned that it's not a good frame of mind for a fencer. There was no sign of the confident aggression I'd displayed in the previous week. Instead I seemed to have absorbed the ex-foilist's most dangerous flaw - I defended without turning defence into attack and paused fractionally before attempting a hit.

Of course he took advantage. Meanwhile I could see what I was doing wrong but attempts to correct the error resulted in longer and longer pauses. He beat me with ease at 10-3 and was justifiably delighted, if puzzled by his success.

I continued to fence in the calm bubble, aware that I was repeating the same error and unable to escape it.

Eventually, against the Spaniard, I stopped pausing and fought back. She beat me, of course, but I managed five hits to her ten. Even though she didn't have to try very hard, that was a noticeable improvement. Finally I took on the ex-foilist again. I began well but he was confident from his previous victory. He pulled back and overtook me. I struggled, did my best and we reached 9-9. Confidence and speed were on his side. I didn't really expect to win and didn't. After the earlier crushing defeat I was pleased enough - too pleased? - to be beaten 10-9.

Perhaps next week I'll care about winning again. I remained calm and content as I cycled home with my new bike-lights bright in the autumn dark.

press-ups - and an unfamiliar sensation

2010-09-10T21:28:00.002+01:00

The chef saw the video I posted and decided to show me how to do press-ups. Perhaps both of us were over-influenced by the prior consumption of gin and tonic. "You need to have your body straight," she warned me as she positioned herself, board-like, at an angle to the floor. She lowered her body easily so that her nose almost touched the floor and then pulled up again.

I was impressed. I took up a position next to her on the carpet, settled my hands in the way she told me and lowered myself slowly towards the carpet. Unfortunately that was as far as it went. I found myself lying on my stomach and giggling helplessly at the improbability of it all.

The chef - a good teacher - was determined. She showed me how to do press-ups from the knees so that I was supporting only half my body weight. I tried again, lowered myself slowly, and ended in a similar collapse of giggles.

I decided not to try any longer. I explained to the chef that my determination sprang only from the instructions of a mutual friend, a former trapeze artist and tightrope walker who had hosted the chef's visit to Australia last year. "She'll make you do it," the chef said, reminding me that the acrobat is due to visit shortly.

I had my doubts but deflected them by pointing to a pair of weights in the corner. "She said I should do weight training," I told the chef. Soon I was standing in the middle of the floor, raising and lowering the weights in a manner which the chef seemed to find unimpressive. "Let's go to the pub," I suggested. (I hope this suggestion works as well when the acrobat is here.)

I wish the chef would persevere with swordplay. As I told her, you can't stab anyone while doing press-ups - and the injuries caused by weights would not be attractive.

Meanwhile, I'm persevering with fencing. A holiday (in Paris as so often) helped and I felt fresh on my return. This didn't enable me to achieve a great transformation but in the first session after my holiday I felt rested and alive. My back barely troubled me.

The beginners' class hadn't started yet so there were no more than thirty fencers in the hall. I noticed something that had changed since I began fencing: far more women are involved. I counted twelve. When I began almost all the women were in the beginners' group. Now women are fencing at every level. There are beginners and once-a-week fencers like me but there are also women who have strong national rankings, bring medals and trophies home and compete internationally.

I'm not the only woman fencing epée. A glamorous young Spaniard has joined us - out of practice but evidently used to fencing at a high level because she decided to concentrate on her studies. Once she'd taken to the piste, the sabreurs clustered around her, suggesting that she might take up sabre. She has the sense to stick with epée and it's fun to see how her skills return. She's in a different league from me but happily takes her turn at fencing all the epéeists - and I feel very pleased if I land a couple of hits on her. Even doubles are pleasing.

I've had most success against a strong foilists who is just beginning epée. He's beginning to get away from what I think of as the foilist's pause - that fractional hesitation to establish right of way before attacking. His stance needs more work but it's improving all the time and he has the advantage of strength and accuracy.

Last week he raced ahead to 5-0 against me in a bout to 15. It didn't look very promising but I stayed calm and tried to work out how to get past his guard. Suddenly I made it to 5-1, then 5-2 and suddenly he was rattled and I was cool and confident.

It was, in a way, an absurd confidence. I didn't have a strategy or the variety of tactics I needed. But I saw that my opponent was getting cross - with himself, not me - and was repeating the same moves and mistakes, with slightly less conviction and accuracy each time. Somehow self-belief propelled me forward and I was suddenly, impossibly, 8-5 ahead. He tried to pull things together and managed a double hit. I retained my confidence, repeating the same parry riposte to every identical attack he made. The watchers were amused - it wasn't high-level fencing and they could see all the errors.

He pulled back a little towards the end but I could see his confidence had ebbed - and he was still cross with himself. I felt as though I were floating toward victory and, in the last points, was quite convinced I could win. It was the conviction that carried me through rather than any skill. I ended at 15-12 up, delighted with the unfamiliar sensation of victory.

There is, of course, a rematch and a less happy sequel, but I'll leave this post at the point of victory. It may never happen again.

fitness frolics

2010-08-22T09:40:00.003+01:00

“No, mum,” my daughter complained. “You aren't keeping up – and why aren't you moving your arms?”

I wanted to explain that I was doing my best but that would have halted my serious effort at concentration. I tried to move in time to the music while swinging my arms in the vigorous way demanded. My daughter, evidently unaware of the great effort I was making, looked disapproving.

Looking back, the exercise DVD may have been a bad idea. It wasn't my idea. I was shopping in town when my daughter rang to urge me to buy an a DVD and mat so that she could compensate for her absence from the gym while I made an effort to regain such fitness as I had. I was relieved that the shop didn't stock the DVD she suggested - I had a suspicion it would be horribly difficult. I rang her back and offered a compromise: I would buy a DVD featuring someone I'd heard of as a keep-fit advisor – not an ex-celebrity advertising weight-loss and a fading career. (If they made Sunset Boulevard today, Norma Desmond would be recommending “swimmercise” and advising how to maintain the perfect figure by regular work-outs in the pool.)

“I'll get this Rosemary Conley one,” I told my daughter, once again on the phone. “She's an Older Person and she offers muscle toning as well as fat-burning.”

My daughter sounded doubtful. However she knew me well enough to realise it was Rosemary Conley or nothing, especially when I added the final persuasive point: “... and it's on special offer – only £5.”

There are often conversations like this when my daughter's around. She has a mission to reform me and takes on different projects from time to time, instructing me on fashion (advice on choosing the right underwear), cooking (fancy ingredients , lots of butter and no salad) and even dating (a long list of topics I shouldn't mention so as not to put off potential suitors - plainly she wants to get me off her hands). Her attempts to train me, with inducements and stern scoldings, are disconcertingly similar to her attempts to train Joe the cat. I think she's more successful with Joe, though of course she feels his shortcomings are really my fault – when she complains about his bad behaviour she often fixes me with an accusing stare (or is that maternal guilt at work?).

Fitness seemed a more hopeful area for her attention than fashion or dating. I certainly wanted to get fit. Lately I've been more active than for several months although my back still isn't entirely pain-free and I'm being cautious. I managed a walk of several miles on a visit to London and, when I stayed with my old friend Kate in Wales, I was capable of accompanying her on a lengthy tour of the National Botanic Gardens, where she works as a volunteer. We also climbed a tower with views and clambered round a ruined Welsh castle on a steep hill. Admittedly there were also intervals involving lunch and tea with cake which contributed more to the pleasure of the occasion than my overall fitness.

Meanwhile, although I'm mostly being defeated in fencing as usual, I'm managing more time on the piste and slightly more speed than earlier this year.

August fencing at our club is a particular pleasure. It's not part of the usual term so we pay a small sum for attendance to cover hall-hire. Sessions are mostly free fencing – although coaches may offer advice – and because of the holidays fewer fencers attend. The sessions I've managed have attracted between twenty and thirty with a good distribution between weapons. Most people who turn up get to fence as much as they wish although sometimes a holiday spirit infects the fencers: I particularly appreciated the spectacle of a sabreuse fencing a foilist at epée: her slashing attacks and hits to head were pleasantly piratical – at least from where I stood to observe – even though striking with her opponent's mask with the side of the blade didn't count as a valid hit. I don't think she was concerned with such technicalities.

Somehow my enjoyment of August fencing persuaded me that I needed to do more to enhance my fitness – and not just for fencing. I've found myself walking more slowly than I would like and although I can now carry much heavier bags, I discovered to my chagrin that I cannot do a single press-up. I'm sure I could do four or five a few years ago – although it's not an exercise I enjoy. The chef, returned to England after adventures in Paris and Australia, is now as toned and svelte as the greatest success in any fitness DVD. She can, it seems, do 135 press-ups in a row, followed by stomach crunches (whatever they are – they sound painful) and a run round the park. She has not, however, returned to fencing, which seems a serious mistake.

So I found myself in front of the television, bouncing hopelessly around while watching the beamingly energetic Rosemary Conley with her super-fit entourage. My daughter watched critically as I flapped my arms and stumbled over my feet in what was supposed to be a 10-minute work-out.

“You've got to try harder,” she urged, adding encouraging, “That woman there lost 6 stone.” (I hope my daughter doesn't think I need to lose six stone – that would make me dangerously thin.)

I cut out the exercises that involved twisting my back. “I don't want it to hurt,” I said. “It's supposed to hurt,” she responded. “Not like that. The physio said ….”

I thought that was the beginning of a good alibi but my daughter looked at me with suspicion. When the first ten minutes ended my daughter took over and restarted the DVD. She did three exercise sessions without pausing, showing admirable energy as she waved her arms and legs vigorously in time to the music. She seemed to know all the exercises as soon as they began, even though she hadn't seen the routines before.

“Look, Mother – that's how to do it,” she said in half-ironic tones. And then, as is the way of daughters, she announced that it was late, she was going to bed and her clothes needed washing after all that exercise – for tomorrow morning, please.

resuming normal service

2010-07-30T15:21:00.004+01:00

Life is finally calming down – and I'm still stabbing people.

I'd like to say I'm doing so more efficiently but, if I'm improving – and it feels as though I am – other people are doing so faster. The club as a whole is having great successes: two fencers heading to the Commonwealth Games, two to the World Veterans' championship and numerous good results at regional and national level. Sadly the majority are in sabre which is still a nasty, slashy weapon.

I'm now struggling to recapture the level of fitness I had last year. My back barely hurts now – just twinges from time to time – and I can walk further and lift far more than I could even a month ago. I've yet to try a really strenuous walk and I haven't been swimming all year but I hope to put that right soon. I feel as though I'm able to move up and down the piste far faster and more energetically than in a long while.

Unfortunately I haven't been winning at all lately. The 11-year-old has acquired a new technique – he started our last bout with a couple of fleches which I couldn't resist, then let the score go up in doubles until he won. Another opponent has learnt how to score through a quick flick to the arm – I'm not fast or accurate enough to do that effectively and haven't yet found a way to counter the flicks. Every so often I manage a hit that delights me – even the occasional neat hit to the wrist. They always feel unplanned but happen just often enough for me to think that perhaps I'm acquiring a skill and an instinct to see a useful opening. But too often I fail to counter or to follow through a parry - I need to work on longer sequences of actions, if I get the chance.

Sadly the one-hit epée competition, though enjoyable, was a bit of a disaster for me. I began badly with two double defeats. The first was against a beginner who was on the electric piste for the first time. I had no idea how he would fence and hoped to take him by surprise with a quick attack, only to discover that he had exactly the same idea, so that our attacks mirrored one another. Later I annoyed myself by planning a swift attack on a young and ferocious fencer, having analysed his techniques and come to the conclusion that he always paused before fleching. But I was unsure the ref had said “play,” paused, and was duly fleched – as I deserved. I ended up with only one win out of ten and finished next to bottom. Yet the occasion didn't feel entirely disastrous - I enjoyed the fencing and felt that I'd at least planned and attempted a few worthwhile attacks. At the end I reflected that it had been a harder group to fence than usual - I was the second-oldest (the oldest is a world-class veteran who was runner up) and the only woman competing. I'd also been glad that the slightly smaller group made it possible to fence everyone in a poule unique.

Now I'm restless and full of energy, wondering how to rebuild my strength. Perhaps it's time to get my bike serviced and ride off for the day – not too far and not up any steep hills. Perhaps I'll find time for a good walk in the Peak District. Perhaps strenuous (and overdue) housework would do the trick. I'm still a little nervous, knowing how much damage a fall can do. But I'm also looking forward again.

winning a bout (an unusual event)

2010-06-09T17:27:00.003+01:00

As readers of this blog will know, I don't expect to win. Occasionally I get a good hit or two but winning - except against beginners - is a pretty rare event. Of course, in my fantasies I could take on d'Artagnan or Cyrano, but in real life the clash of blades is usually followed by a point to my opponent.

Last week, however, I felt on good form. Physiotherapy and the use of a TENS machine had done wonders for the pain from my fractured vertebra. I headed to fencing feeling cheerful and unusually alert after several nights' sleep uninterrupted by pain. I'd forgotten how good that felt. Ignoring the twinges in my back from the weight of my backpack - I still can't risk cycling - I enjoyed the scent of flowers and mown grass in the light evening. Lilac blossoms stretched over the tarmac pavement and the path to the leisure centre was lined by cow parsley.

The fencing boys were away on half term but the fencer I think of as the Welshman was there. (He isn't actually Welsh.) More importantly, he was keen to fence epée. As usual, I didn't expect to win but I hoped I wouldn't too badly. Like me, the Welshman is a late starter but he's been fencing longer than I have and has entered competitions. He also takes part in other sports so is plainly more athletic.

Still, I was filled with enthusiasm, especially when I surprised myself and my opponent by scoring the first hit.

I was relaxed, which helped, and moving more freely than I have for months. This probably wasn't impressive but it gave me the confidence to think about strategy and vary my attacks. When we started to score doubles, and I was ahead, I realised that a run of doubles would be enough. But as we reached 9-8, my opponent was faster and the score went to 9-9. But somehow I'd achieved the sort of calmness I needed and went for the next hit. I scored. "10-9," said the Welshman, whipped off his mask and held out his hand.

I hadn't been sure whether we were fencing to 10 or 15 but I was certainly happy to stop with a victory at 10. Victories don't happen often.

Holding onto the epée piste, I persuaded an intermediate foilist less than half my age that he'd like to give epée a go. He has the height for it. He's fast, but he's not yet familiar enough with the weapon. His en garde was still based on foil and I even managed a wrist hit. I could also take advantage of that little pause that is characteristic of fencers used to establishing right of way. It wasn't easy to beat him 10-8 but it was easier than beating the Welshman. After we'd finished I explained about his en garde and the pause and suggested he ask one of the coaches for advice. I wonder if I'll ever beat him again.

It would be good to end this post with a victory but that isn't how the evening ended. I fenced steam against an experienced and younger foilist who has done quite enough epée to avoid the usual errors. I couldn't get to grips with her foil technique and found myself repeating errors. We weren't keeping score but it was easy enough to see that she smashed me. But I still got a few hits.

stabbing children

2010-06-09T15:41:00.003+01:00

The arrival of two young epéeists - evenly matched and enthusiastic 11-year-olds - has cheered me at least.

In all the time I've been a member of the fencing club, younger fencers have tended to stick with foil or move to sabre. I can see why that is. The epée is the heaviest weapon. Even lighter versions will cause a young arm to ache after five or ten minutes of practice. And then there's a lot of practice involved before it's possible to achieve a hit while moving - at least if you hit with a sabre there's a good chance the blade will land roughly where you want it. Moving from foil to epée involves feeling like a beginner again: missing what seem to be easy hits and getting rid of the slight pause that characterises fencers who need to establish right of way.

I think the youngsters started with epée. They've been fencing for a while and are good.

I had some advantages. Because there aren't any club epées below size 5 - and because I can't hold or fence with a pistol grip - the young fencers had to use a heavier weapon than usual to fence me. (Other fencers used borrowed a smaller, lighter, shorter weapon from one of the youngsters.) Then there was my greater height and weight. However it seemed to me that I had one disadvantage at least - I would be trying to hit a smaller (and probably faster) target area.

If I were a better fencer, I'd have started off lightly, giving the young fencers a chance. As a pretty weak fencer, hampered by a back injury, I decided to try to win. I'd watched the boys for long enough to reckon that, if I beat them once, they'd be busy working out ways to defeat me. So I used everything I had - strength, weight and, quite possibly, the boys' awareness that they were stabbing someone old enough to be their grandmother.

In the first bout I was quickly two points ahead and held the advantage as we fenced, with several doubles, to 10-8. I won the second bout 10-2. Then I wondered if I'd been mean. "No," I thought. "I learn a lot by fencing people who beat me - and it's probably the same for them."

They were back next week. I fenced only one of them and he beat me 10-8. Time for me to try even harder.

This all happened a couple of weeks ago. I'm trying to catch up on blogposts. More shortly, I hope.

Enjoying epée

2010-05-03T15:35:00.004+01:00

I finally got results from the medical tests - I do NOT have osteoporosis.

I didn't think I had - the doctor thought it unlikely and the tests weren't high priority. Still, it's a relief to know officially that there's no serious underlying problem. My back still hurts but at least I'm not likely to fracture it again.

Even before the results, I've been less careful at fencing. These last two weeks I've been tired before setting out and had to force myself to walk to the leisure centre - I'm still not cycling with a heavy back-pack. But on both occasions I felt better when I arrived than when I set out, even though there was a sad shortage of epéeists.

My opponents noticed the difference. "That's good - you're being more aggressive," one said. Another commented that I'd become more accurate. I've been working on accuracy but didn't think I'd achieved much. I lost bouts against much better fencers at 15-9 and 15-10, which seemed almost as good as a victory. Mind you, we were fencing steam so the scoring was a little uncertain - it's hard to tell if a blade has really attached and some of my opponents' hits may have been too swift to notice.

Fencing on the box, I took on the Chinese fencer who visits in university vacations. He's way better than me and, as we wired up, I wondered if I'd manage a single hit.

Perhaps he was a little out of practice at epée - he'd been fencing foil all evening. On the first point he lunged towards me, misjudged his distance and began to lose his balance. I closed in and, in what seemed like slow motion, hit him on the toe. It was a point I should never have won and we both laughed with the absurdity of it. I lost most points - there were a few doubles - but I won more too, including a hit right to the centre of the mask. I left the piste ridiculously pleased with myself.

I'm definitely fencing more vigorously now, even though I pay for it in increased back pain for a few days afterwards. Occasionally I take a small Jura malt to help me sleep - it tastes so much better than co-codamol. I think it's time to go to the doctor for more advice - I fear she won't let me have single malt on prescription, however.

Meanwhile I'm looking forward to the next episode of Doctor Who. It's set in Venice and seems to feature fencing vampires.

repeating myself

2010-04-13T19:37:00.004+01:00

It's getting hard to find anything new to say about fencing. Bearing in mind my doctor's advice about sticking to "low-impact exercise," I've been hesitant about fencing for too long on club evenings. So I'm not merely a once-a-week fencer - I'm a fencer who doesn't fence that much when I get there. I tend to fence everyone who turns up to do epée, chat a bit and go home for an early night. I probably get as much exercise from the walk there and back (three miles in total) as I do from fencing.

The only aim I can have is to maintain my fencing at its current, low level. There are worse things than this. When I stop fencing for a while, my skills deteriorate and my sword no longer sits easily in my hand. At least I still get the occasional hit. But there's not much to report on a blog.

Still, it's good to see the new beginners. And it was fun to take part in the one-hit epée (for an Easter egg trophy) last week. There was the usual mix of levels, ages, sizes and fencing styles as the epéeists were joined by foilists and sabreurs.

We began in two pools of seven but then late-comers arrived and wanted to join in. Our pool expanded to nine. As usual, most of the time was spent in wiring up, sharing equipment and testing weapons. And there were some unexpected results with two good sabreurs unable to reach the final fence-off after a couple of doubles (scored as a double defeat).

At the beginning, facing good fencers, I did what I could to defend and stay out of reach but lacked the aggression that might just have achieved a lucky hit. I began to realise this and at least managed a lengthy, attacking bout against a tall fencer who had barely fenced epée before but was on a winning streak. He not only beat me but was one of the two from the pool to qualify for the semi-final.

I noticed that an excellent young foilist who made the semi-finals last year had been unlucky in her first bouts - and it seemed to have affected her confidence. She's a dangerous left-hander who I've faced without success in one-hit and in club competitions. As I wired up to face her I could see her uncertainty. When the referee said "Play," she seemed to pause for a moment. I didn't - I charged forward, clumsily but as fast as I could, and made the hit a moment before she reacted.

For a moment I was delighted - it was my first hit after a run of defeats and not one I'd expected. But then I saw the disappointment on my opponent's face and felt sorry. I tried to say something encouraging but she plainly felt awful. She hadn't merely been beaten by a weaker fencer - I'm old enough to be her grandmother.

In the end, I managed two hits out of eight - not good but not as bad as I'd feared. I was sorry that the Easter egg went to a sabreur this year but at least there were small creme eggs for all competitors. And, whatever my doctor advises, I don't think my back is getting any worse because of the fencing.

fencing the air force

2010-03-14T19:40:00.003Z

I wasn't sure there would be much chance of fencing this week as our club was hosting a couple of epée league matches. This can mean that all the good epéeists are tied up, leaving little chance for fencers of a lower standard to practice. However it does provide a good opportunity to watch epée so I went along.

I had a further incentive. The club president is now acting as armourer and had displayed a price list for weaponry repairs. Last week my best epée failed to register hits and was plainly in need of re-wiring.

I've watched instructions on how to rewire an epée and looked at the helpful advice on the Leon Paul website. It led to the inescapable conclusion that, even if I had all the necessary equipment, I lack the time and ability to do a good job. I was pleased to be reunited with my healthy and much-loved epée, although I suspect I was under-charged for the work.

Inspired by the reunion with my epée, I happily accepted a challenge from one of the intermediate fencers. He's a foilist really, and less experienced than me. However he was clearly the better fencer last week and I wanted to prove to myself (and him) that I could do better. Luckily I observed his habit of lifting his wrist, offering a target to my attack. I caught him on the hand twice before explaining what he was doing wrong. After that, his hand was protected but I was pleased to manage a few more hits on his arm. At least I could once more hit a moving target.

I'm still tiring easily so didn't fence for as long as I would have liked. Instead I started watching one of the epée league contests, between our club and a local university. One of the club fencers, who is a member of both, chose to fence for the university who won by two or three points in a close battle. Then my club took on the Royal Air Force.

I noticed the cold as I stood watching. There hasn't been any snow for a couple of weeks but most nights are frosty and it felt as though the frost had invaded the leisure centre. The parents sitting round the edge were hunched into scarves and warm jackets. I was surprised to be so aware of the cold, despite wearing fencing kit. I hoped I'd get another bout soon.

As a campaigning pacifist, I sometimes find myself handing out leaflets outside army bases. I've met a range of people from the armed forces in various circumstances. Usually I like them as people, and the soldiers I've met through fencing seem particularly kind and friendly. This doesn't stop me opposing their military activities and, of course, I hoped that the club would beat the RAF.

Of course, we weren't fencing the entire RAF - only their local representatives, including some who were relatively new to fencing. Still, it was good to see my club score an easy victory. As there was no-one around to fence, I watched the whole match, getting colder and colder, and some of the friendly bouts that followed.

Someone suggested I fence the woman from the RAF. I was a bit worried about this. She may have been in the losing team and less experienced but she was plainly physically fit and less than half my age. Still, it was a chance for a bout and I wouldn't get much fencing if I said no. I briefly reflected on the complex ethics of fencing against members of the armed forces, then concentrated on attaching my wire and saluting.

She was, of course, better than me. However the member of the RAF who was presided complimented me on a parry and praised my technique! I managed a couple of doubles and one neat hit and determined to keep fighting. I went for the lowest lunge I could manage and felt a muscle strain in my calf. It was a familiar sensation - the second time this year and the third time in five months. I was losing anyway so could say nothing. I limped through to the inevitable defeat and watched some more. Then I tried to fence a fellow club member. After three points I gave up.

My calf still hurts but is recovering. One fencer suggested muscles to strengthen my calf. I think I probably needed exercises to warm up but I'm not experienced enough to tell. This time no-one has started a sentence with the words, "At your age ..." - at least, not yet.

densitometry and fencing badly

2010-03-10T15:09:00.002Z

My back is beginning to feel less painful - and I'm continuing to fence, although not well. I'm working on the assumption that if, once a week, I stand up and wave my epée around, I won't forget what I know about fencing. I'm not sure it's working.

I tend to arrive at the lesiure centre tired - that's not new. But when tiredness is allied to caution, it's hard to summon up the determination and concentration to land hits on my opponents. Even when the coach stands still, extends his arm and asks me to hit it, I have a tendency to miss. Last week he began, thoughtfully, to move his arm into the path of my blade to ensure I hit the target occasionally. I didn't find it very encouraging - I think I used to be better than that.

Meanwhile, I was referred to the more distant hospital in town for a bone densitometry scan. The staff were helpful and I didn't have to wait. However, once I'd clambered into my hospital gown and dressing gown, the process of weighing and measuring began. I seem to be more than an inch shorter, presumably as a result of the compression fracture. I had noticed that my skirts and coats seemed a little longer than before - but I hate the thought that I'm shrinking.

Then came the various scans where I lay on a couch in odd positions while the scanner moved up and down. I was reminded of trips to the shoe-shop when I was young, It was a great treat to see my footbones in the x-ray measuring machine. I couldn't interpret the scans as they appeared on the technician's computer but it was reassuring to see that, at least, none of my vertebrae had fallen out. Sometimes I feel they are on the point of detaching themselves from my spine but they all look fairly secure, so far as I can tell.

Perhaps that will give me the courage I need at fencing. A good night's sleep would help too. And I wouldn't mind finding a way to get that missing inch back - but I'm not sure that fencing in high heels is the best idea.

Meanwhile I'm glad to report that members of the club have scored a number of successes (and trophies) in tournaments - mostly in sabre, unfortunately. Perhaps some will see the light and switch to epée, even if it's just for a couple of bouts a week.

killer heels and the victory of ice

2010-02-28T09:24:00.005Z

It's March tomorrow and the chef (still in Paris) reminds me that I haven't added to this blog all year. I blame the snow, the ice, demands of work and myself. England never expects real weather - that's why it's so often a subject of conversation.

But there was snow before Christmas, snow after Christmas, more snow, then more snow, and yet more snow may be on the way. I like snow but the cold and ice were wearing. I began to wish I hadn't put off the extravagance of double glazing and loft insulation, just because I had other bills to pay.

I was glad to be offered a lift to the fencing club dinner, especially since I wasn't sure about walking more than a few yards in my new (to me) shoes. The rules for the dinner said "cocktail dresses or dinner jackets." I possess neither. However one of the local charity shops had a dress that would do and I was glad to think of profits reaching the British Heart Foundation. The problem of matching shoes remained - until I remembered the elegant shoes my daughter bought on eBay which she'd attempted to sell me when she discovered they didn't fit. I decided to teeter elegantly - but the shoes didn't seem quite right for snow on ice.

Emerging tentatively from the car, I found the shoes more efficient than I'd expected. The sharp heels stabbed through the ice and I seemed surprisingly more secure than in the walking boots I'd been using for daytime excursions. Even at the end of the meal, after a glass or three of wine, I had few problems in crossing the icy pavement.

The following week, I left the house a little late on my way to work. I'd glanced out of the window on snowless roads and pavements but wore my walking boots just in case. Sturdy shoes are a wise precaution in these days. I took a few steps outdoors then slid, heavily, on my behind. A pain darted from my spine across my waist. The postman saw - or heard my scream - and came to help. "It's the black ice," he told me.

I looked again. Pavements and roads were shiny with a thin, lethal layer of ice.

Somehow I got up and, despite the pain, continued on my journey. After twenty minutes of careful sliding, I attempted to cross the railway bridge. The slope defeated me. Again I needed help. A couple of passers by attempted to aid my journey. The three of us linked arms, took a step, and slid backwards downhill together. The bridge was impossible and I worked out a detour involving departure from the nearer platform.

I fenced in the evening, despite the pain. I wasn't the only fencer to have slipped on the black ice. I felt lucky - Casualty had been full and the police occupied with collisions. I went on fencing - but carefully. I found cycling tricky and took taxis. The pain didn't go away.

It took me two weeks to go to the doctor and several days after that to get to the x-ray department. When the results came through, I had to see the doctor again, though they weren't labelled urgent. I'm not quite sure of the diagnosis though it included terms like "compression fracture" and "damaged vertebra." No-one's quite sure when the damage was done - some of it might have happened in my fall from the loft a couple of years ago.

The doctor recommended "low impact exercise." "Not swimming," he said, explaining that most people bend the spine doing breaststroke and that this wouldn't be good for me. He gave me a sheet of exercises. I've tried them - they would normally be simple but just now they hurt quite as much as the original fall, so I've given up.

I asked the doctor about fencing. "It's only once a week," I said, with my most persuasive and encouraging smile. "I'm not very good at it and I don't do that much." I took his smile for assent.

He then began one of those sentences which includes the words "considering your age." They're never good news. He's referred me for further tests for osteoporosis. But he doesn't think it likely. Nor do I. I've looked at the websites and the only indication I've got is a fracture - young people have those too.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying fencing even though I'm not doing as much as usual. I don't know whether I'll still be fencing this time next year. But I hope to be there when the chef finally returns from Paris this autumn, even if her current level of fitness means I'm unlikely to beat her.

stabbing Santa Claus

2009-12-24T11:26:00.006Z

Viewers paused on the bridge above the salle. They looked puzzled - even slightly concerned. I don't know if they had watched fencing before but they probably hadn't seen festive fencing before.

Because of the icy pavements, I hadn't visited all the shops I'd intended. My fencing kit was sadly short of tinsel. However, before the snow fell, I had bought a pair of felt reindeer antlers, They had the added advantage of small lights that would flash cheerfully whenever I pressed a button while the headband emitted a faint tune. I wasn't sure that "Jingle Bells" was quite what I needed to strike fear into the heart of my opponents, but it was certainly festive. I wound some of last year's fluffly lilac tinsel round my wrist. Then I looked round for an opponent.

I started by fencing foil against a boy in Christmas hat with a gold-tinselled sword. All around me santas were battling reindeer, using foil and sabre. The floor was acquiring a light dusting of shredded, glittering tinsel.

Perhaps the best costume involved gold tinsel sewn to fencing jackets and breeches combined with orange gloves, trimmed with white fur and beads, a santa hat and - the winning touch - a long white Santa beard apparently descending from the fencing mask. "Epée?" I asked Santa.

I pressed the button on my antlers so that I could advance to the reassuring sound of "Jingle Bells." Sadly the lights had stopped working after a few hits. It was a little hard to adopt a threatening demeanour and I was worried that my sword might tangle in Santa's beard. Still, we fenced for some time and I took great pleasure in stabbing Santa Claus.

It wasn't the most vigorous or dedicated evening of fencing, though I did get some really useful advice on wrist action in parrying. I'd known before that I needed to make my attacks and parries far more precise but there's a difference between knowing the theory and suddenly feeling the practice click into place. The coach who spent time with me told me exactly what I needed to know at just the right time - I hope I can hold that knowledge through the holidays. Many fencers paused to photograph bouts, to exchange cards or simply to watch the fencers. Someone borrowed a large broom from the leisure centre staff and a foilist and sabreuse spent time clearing the floor of Christmas sparkle.

The evening ended with a visit to the pub. I cadged a lift from one of the coaches (in a jaguar!) and enjoyed a glass of mulled ale and more conversation with my fellow fencers. Sadly, the leisure centre is closed between Christmas and New Year and I shan't be fencing again till mid-January. However, I can look forward to the fencing club Christmas dinner in the New Year, just as all the festivities are winding down into January bleakness.

Merry Christmas - and I hope you have a happy and peaceful New Year - apart from whatever amount of enjoyable and consensual violence you would choose.

hits and misses

2009-12-22T20:14:00.003Z

One-hit epée changes the look of the salle. As I entered, the beginners were having a class at one end of the hall and a few intermediates were chatting but the main weapon being fenced in the body of the hall was epée. Even confirmed sabreurs were taking turns on the two electric pistes, determined to do well. There's nothing like the chance of a chocolate santa to inspire a fencer.

One-hit epée tournaments are regular events at our club. They happen towards the end of each of the three terms and the club president donates a seasonal prize, usually in chocolate, with plenty of smaller chocolate items for all.

I think this must have been the largest one-hit epée contest I've known. Eighteen fencers signed up for it. The skills range was from intermediate to international and the age range was nearly fifty years. A decision was taken to set up two poules of nine with the top two of each going through to the final. Looking across at the other poule, I felt I was in a group which would give me more chances. I reckoned that, for all the strong fencers in my group, I had a chance of a couple of hits at least - with luck. The other poule was already being christened "the poule of death."

One-hit epée isn't easy to predict and it's hard to plan for it. My first bout was against a sabreur. He came towards me, moving like a sabreur and hit me at once. I unclipped and handed the ground wire over to the next fencer. Meanwhile I noticed the other epeeists doing well.

I took more time in my second bout, against the doc, but the outcome was predictable. He hit me lightly and that was it. I tried to encourage myself with the thought that I'd have better chances against other fencers in the group.

Then I was against a fencer who has encouraged and coached me unofficially on a number of occasions. He tells me off for being insufficiently aggressive so I was determined to show him how aggressive I could be. I also remembered managing a hit on him in a previous one-hit epée context. It was a longer bout with considerable movement as we parried one another. Eventually we both went for a hit and my light came on. A couple of women near me applauded and I was feeling delighted when someone pointed out that my opponent's body wire had come free of the ground-wire - not his fault but a problem with old club equipment. Someone suggested it was up to the ref to decide if the point should be replayed but it seemed clear to me and I requested a rematch.

Once again I tried to be combative and parried energetically but my opponent hit before I could land a touch. I shook hands and said "well done" but felt slightly down.

I was beaten easily by my next opponent, a Chinese graduate student who fences with us as a guest when his usual club is on vacation. Then I was against a fellow epéeist who was doing well and who tends to beat me every week. I had one advantage - I'm used to fencing him. I can't quite recall what I did but I was determined to change my strategy and move more than usual. I heard the beep that meant a touch and didn't realise, till I looked, that I'd taken the point.

That gave me confidence for the next bout, against a fencer who had recently returned after a long break. Although he fences epée sometimes, he's still mostly a foilist. Being out of practice his movements were slightly wide - and I managed to hit him. Two points seemed respectable and I was feeling pleased.

My final two bouts were against intermediate foilists who had tried epée only occasionally. The first should have hit me but her attack missed and, in a messy scramble, I managed to land a hit on her. The second was quick and accurate and hit me first.

I looked at the score sheet. I'd won three bouts and three fencers from my group had scored only two. Whatever had happened in the other poule, I wasn't last. Meanwhile the doc and the Chinese guest tied for first place in our group. No-one was sure how the final four would fence for the chocolate santa so they fenced again. There was a series of doubles before the guest landed a hit and won first place from the group.

Meanwhile the club president had won the other poule and four fencers were tied for second place. The ref quickly organised them into further bouts. The tied fencers included a regular epéeist and an international sabreur. But the winner of the battle for second place was a confident intermediate foilist who was holding an epée for only the second time in her life. She was smaller and slighter than the other fencers and her quick, delicate touches took her opponents by surprise.

After some debate, a decision was made that the final four would fence in a poule unique. This was more fun for the spectators, especially since the initial result was a tie between the president and the doc. We gathered to watch the final and cheered as the club president won - and was duly presented with the chocolate santa he had donated. Then he produced small santas for the rest of us.

When I looked at the final scoresheet, I discovered I'd had my best one-hit contest ever. Five fencers had achieved two hits and four had managed three. This meant I was in joint tenth place. I don't think I'd have done as well in the other poule but, all the same, it felt like a good result. I happily gnawed the head off a small chocolate santa.

continuing (with injuries)

2009-12-18T23:12:00.004Z

The club competition was never going to be easy. If it hadn't been for a comment on this blog, I'd have given up. I had plenty of excuses: my calf hurt and my workload was huge. I took some with me on the Sunday - I wasn't the only one. It's sad to see how, in a time of high unemployment, those with jobs work absurdly long hours. It would be better to share the work around.

I registered for foil and epée, looked at the people in my poule and fenced without conviction. "Where's the aggression?" a fellow fencer asked and added, correctly, "You've lost it."

He was right. I wasn't expecting to win and I wasn't trying to win. I attempted to pull myself together. I still didn't win any bouts but began to perform a little better - at least, I began to feel more satisfied with the attempts I was making. But my footwork was more a shuffle than anything else - I didn't want to risk worse damage with the epée still to come.

Every so often I felt an urge to win but never for more than a point or two. Needless to say I was ranked low, fenced a strong fencer in the Direct Elimination, and was eliminated (15-5). Somehow I didn't come last overall - just bottom from last. But in the competition for the lower ranked fencers I did come last.

Still, I was fencing which seemed like some sort of achievement.

In the epée once again I made occasional attempts to win but didn't sustain them. My best poule bout went to 4-4 - I was briefly ahead before that. Then I looked at my opponent and my aggression ebbed away. She's a foilist who I can beat on occasion but I lost that last point before the ref. said "Fence."

All I had left was the D.E. I was against the fencer who had beaten me in foil. This time I had nothing to lose - there was no longer any point in trying to look after my injured calf. I attacked, parried and did my best. It wasn't that good but it felt more like fencing than anything I'd done before. We were at 14-6 (to him of course) when the ref. called for a minute's halt. I took off my mask and tried to muster my determination. I was going to go for that next point. As soon as the ref. said "Play," I attacked and drove my opponent back. He was disconcerted and in danger of going off piste when I took the point. And I took the next with similar tactics. It wasn't pretty but it was more like fencing than anything I'd done in the preceding six hours.

It couldn't last. My opponent took the next point and I was eliminated. But 15-8 seemed a respectable score. I still came last but didn't feel too bad about it.

I stayed to watch the final and applauded the victors. Then I headed home for more work.

My calf didn't seem any worse for the fencing so I was back for more after only three days. Early in the evening I found myself against a visiting 13-year-old, very highly ranked in his age group. He's a swift, elegant left-hander and much smaller than me. I watched him getting annoyed with himself as he failed to beat the club champion. He had an easier task fencing me.

We agreed to fence to 10. He took some points easily, I managed one and then he caught me from below in the ribcage. I must have advanced at speed onto his lunge. It hurt so much I cried out. The boy was devastated and apologetic. I insisted it wasn't that bad but it hurt enough to affect me for the rest of that bout (the boy won 10-2) and in the rest of my fencing that evening. I was glad I hadn't cycled and accepted a lift home. For a couple of weeks the pain didn't get better and even, on occasion, woke me at night.

It's a torn muscle, I think. I considered going to the doctor but work was too busy and, in any case, he wouldn't have been able to offer more than strong pain-killers. I fenced the following week but only against a couple of very experienced fencers who were unlikely to cause much pain. I was nervous, forcing myself to fence.

I departed early. But before I left people started to remind me, "One-hit epée next week."

"You're taking part, aren't you?" asked a coach.

"Yes," I replied.

Ouch!

2009-11-25T22:30:00.004Z

I am getting old.

There's nothing exciting about that and most people reckon it's better than the alternative. However, I seem to be losing energy and enthusiasm.

There was a club message warning of less space than usual for fencing. It was the club's turn to play host to the local epée league and the beginners were taking part in their first match against a nearby club. Those of us not involved had the choice of queuing for the space not taken by the four electric pistes or watching the matches.

I walked to fencing. We've been lucky with weather compared to Cumbria but I felt too tired to cycle in the rain. I shouldered my backpack and sword bag and set out. I locked the house and turned the corner. Joe the cat emerged from the hedge and bounded hopefully beside me. I scooped him up and returned home. It's very hard to carry a cat as well as fencing kit but somehow I managed to lock him in. He wasn't pleased. Perhaps he'd overheard me talking about the mouse we saw the other week.

As I walked, I wondered whether I'd bother with the club championship this year. I may have been fencing a little better lately - with more desire to win - but the club championship is going to be a succession of defeats and I'm no longer sure I'll enjoy or learn from them. Besides, I have a lot of work to do, and I'm tired. d'Artagnan and Cyrano would have seen it differently but I've just started to read Les Miserables.

I determined to banish my autumnal gloom and, once in the leisure centre, started watching the first epée match. I arrived half way through and it wasn't going well. I joined the small group of spectators who clapped and called "good hit" encouragingly. I enjoyed watching the speed, accuracy and skill of the visiting fencers but could see that our team, while not doing badly, was not going to win. Every so often one of our fencers would win a few points in a row but the visiting fencers were far ahead and their progress was inexorable. They are top of the league and have won every match so far.

Before the second match, I managed some steam epée (not very well) but then returned to watch. The second team of opponents seemed less threatening, perhaps because of their youth and unconventional dress. One wore tracksuit bottom over his breeches while another wore jeans. Our team looked more cheerful - until the fencer in jeans gained a hit with a spectacular fleche. "That was a very fast fleche," someone said. Our team stayed ahead throughout but it never seemed easy. It looks as though the team will maintain its position at about the middle of the league.

Finally, as the visiting fencers packed their kit away, I had a chance to fence on the electric piste. I was uncomfortably aware of better fencers from another club watching curiously but I wanted to get in as much fencing as I could. My opponent had been away from fencing for a couple of months but he knew how to beat me. The few hits I landed tended to be doubles. I determined to try harder.

Suddenly I felt a pain in my left calf - not severe but more like a mild cramp. I tried to move forward with bent legs and it hurt more. I attempted another point. Then I stopped. I couldn't take up a fencing stance easily. Suddenly I was worried it would get worse. I ended the bout and walked away, hoping the sensation would vanish. It didn't. It was fine when I sat or stood but my calf ached when I moved.

I was glad I hadn't cycled - it meant I could accept a lift home.

Perhaps my calf will feel better tomorrow. Perhaps I'll fence in the club championship. I don't know.

Curry and high heels

2009-11-13T10:08:00.003Z

I don't know how duellists managed in the 17th and 18th century. The extravagant menus must have weighted them down and as for the costumes, and the shoes ...

My most recent experience of fencing reminded me of them - and I felt more sympathy than usual for the rich, well-fed and elegantly dressed.

The team lunch at work was my idea. We needed to prepare for a meeting at lunchtime. There were the usual possibilities: bringing sandwiches, going hungry, cheese and biscuits in the pub. But there's also an excellent South Indian vegetarian restaurant round the corner offering a bargain 3-course buffet lunch. I thought a meal there would be a cheerful occasion - and it was.

But by the time I struggled into my fencing breeches, I was feeling uncomfortably full - not the best beginning to the evening. And after a couple of weeks with few epeeists, a couple of the regulars had returned. I'd have liked to fence well. Perhaps the lunch wasn't such a good idea.

Halfway into my first bout against the doc, I noticed another problem - an ache in my ankles. Perhaps the elegant shoes I'd chosen for work (a bargain from the Marks and Spencer sale) weren't such a good idea either. I suspect the ache came from running for the train in high heels - trainers would have been more comfortable. I did my best but I didn't even try any deep lunges. I knew my limits.

All the same, it was good to have an epée in my hand. A younger fencer invited me to fence foil as well and I enjoyed that too, though I kept having to remind myself about right of way.

While I was glad to fence, I was also pleased when it was time to go. But just as I walked to the side of the salle where fencers leave clothes, water bottles and spare swords, I noticed something small and dark scurrying around, slithering on the shine of the floor between the kit bags. It was quickly out of sight but I'd seen the sleek fur and a black sparkling eye. I felt sorry for the mouse - it was cold and damp outside - but it was at risk from a fencer's foot. Nor would a fencing kit bag be the best or safest place for a small animal.

The mouse was evidently too fast to catch but the doc joined me in steering it away from the kit bags. It ducked beneath the first of the double doors and headed towards the car park, but was then caught in a frenzy of anxiety. It tried to climb the wall and managed so well that the doc had to scare it down by hitting the wall with his sword. That's when the mouse gave up and jumped over the step of the second door, which we'd opened, and out onto starlit tarmac.

I hope the mouse has survived. There have been torrential downpours since then and I'd like to think he found a warm, safe shelter.

fopée again

2009-10-28T22:17:00.002Z

I was exhausted - the sort of exhaustion that lingers when a virus has visited and not quite gone. Somehow I got on my bike but, by the time I reached the leisure centre, I was breathless. I wondered about going home again but the effort seemed too great. Reluctantly, I pulled myself into my kit.

There weren't many epeeists and, for once, I was relieved. "I'll do a little foil," I said, thinking of the lightness of the weapon. I was forgetting about the speed and the need to adopt a lower fencing stance against smaller, lighter and mostly younger opponents.

I should have fenced a tall young man who moves fast and hits hard. The architect must have seen my trepidation and, knowing I'd been ill, suggested I wait and fence one of the intermediates - a girl of about 17 who, it turned out, has excellent technique and accuracy. I have neither.We set out to fence to 10 and I tried to remember the rules of foil. As I paused before each attack, trying to establish right of way, I quickly discovered that my young opponent had a deft and deadly parry riposte. Her neat fencing quickly gave her a clear lead of 6-2.

Evidently my foil skills were not going to win the bout. I changed my method and began to fence foil like an epeeist, but doing my best to aim for the smaller target area. This puzzled my opponent who had been trained to fence foilists. I got rid of the pause, worked on taking the blade and forcing my attack through. It wasn't pretty but I began to win points and suddenly we were at 8-8. My opponent was looking anxious and uncertain - an advantage to me, I thought. I continued with my furious and inelegant technique and she faltered. It was 9-8 to me and I was suddenly determined to win. The next point was a messy scuffle but I landed the necessary hit. 10-8 to me.

The architect, who had been watching, could hardly stop laughing. "That wasn't foil - that was epée," she said.

"I know," I replied, "but it worked."

Later I fenced the architect at epée. She fenced like a foilist. She won.

Barefoot fencing?

2009-10-17T10:22:00.003+01:00

"You've lost it already," a fellow fencer said sternly.

She was right. I'd begun the bout - against a keen, 13-year-old left-hander - with an apology for being such a lousy opponent. I expect I'd have lost anyway but that is no way to start.

There were two new epéeists: the boy and an army pentathlete. I didn't get to fence the pentathlete. She reckoned epee was one of her lesser skills and found the boy, who's been fencing epée for three years, a difficult opponent. Most of the usual epéeists were absent. I left fairly early since I seemed to have the beginnings of a cold. "See you next week," I called.

I made resolutions. I would fence to win next week. And I would get my trainers repaired.

I like my current trainers. They're white with pale blue trimmings, which seems a decent colour scheme. More importantly, they're comfortable and I feel as though I move slightly faster down the piste when wearing them. But in the last couple of weeks I've noticed that they aren't exactly safe as the tips of the soles, by my toes, are coming adrift. I thought of using superglue but decided on a trip to the local cobbler instead.

But my week was taken over by illness - just a virus - and the impossibility of taking time off. Any time at home was spent slowly doing a few urgent household tasks (washing up, putting the bin out) and sleeping restlessly. I was even working on Saturday. I didn't get to the cobbler till the morning before fencing. ( "You can't fence," my Dad said on the phone. "You need to stay home." I croaked agreement but secretly thought I might be better.)

In the end, the cobbler decided it. He wasn't there. The young man who took my trainers explained politely that they couldn't be ready till the following morning.

I thought briefly of fencing in old trainers - or barefoot - and dismissed the idea. I needed to get better. I stayed home and cooked curry instead.

It hasn't been a week entirely without fencing. I found the Royal Shakespeare Company's 1985 production of Cyrano de Bergerac on youtube. I remember watching the production from my cheap seat and thinking nothing could be better. The verse translation by Anthony Burgess seems as light as the French original. Watching on youtube doesn't have the glamour and excitement of the Barbican Theatre but it's as close as I can get to this past pleasure.

Ow!

2009-10-03T12:55:00.004+01:00

After nearly a fortnight without stabbing anyone, I was happily anticipating my return to fencing. I managed an early night in preparation. Then I woke at half past four and soon realised I couldn't get back to sleep. I headed downstairs for camomile tea and started to surf the net.

I was sitting still at my computer when the pain hit me - a sharp ache just above my hip. At first I couldn't think what had caused it. Then I remembered how awkwardly I'd tranported lemonade and orange juice in a shopping bag on wheels - the bad my children object to and call my "granny bag." (As I point out, I'm old enough to be a great-grandmother, but they don't think that's a good excuse.) "If I can get back to sleep," I told myself, "the pain will go away."

I managed sleep but the pain persisted - not all the time but whenever I moved in certain ways. Tying shoelaces was the worst. Luckily there is no need to tie shoelaces while actually fencing but as the day progressed I began to wonder whether fencing would be possible. Eventually I rang the doctor's surgery just in time to get the last appointment of the day.

The doctor reassured me that it was just a pulled muscle - I had began to worry lest it was something worse - and wrote me a prescription for strong painkillers. I assured him I didn't drive or operate heavy machinery. "How about fencing?" I asked.

The doctor asked me to show what moves would be involved. This seemed a lot sillier than lying on a couch to be poked and prodded but I got to my feet and adopted a fencing stance. It didn't hurt. I made a few fencing moves backwards and forwards and attempted a small lunge. "It's OK," I said in amazement. "No pain."

I assured the doctor that I'd be able to stop if it hurt and he agreed that I could fence. I began to look forward to the evening.

Putting on my breeches and lacing my trainers was excruciating. I realised cycling would be unwise, especially since the pain-killers were going to make me woozy. Although the backpack for my kit was slightly uncomfortable, walking was the best solution.

Once again there was a shortage of epeeists but this time I had the sense to borrow a lamé and ask a couple of foilists for bouts. I warned them about my muscle strain and they helped me in the tricky and painful tasks of doing up the lamé, picking up my mask, and connecting my body wire. I was quite glad to begin with a light weapon, even though I've lost any expertise I ever had. My technique is now, as an opponent said, based entirely on epée. I kept forgetting about establishing right of way and simply tried to hit the smaller target area. To my surprise, I managed a few points.

Then one of my opponents discarded her lamé and borrowed a club epée. We fenced steam scoring, so far as we could tell, double after double. But it felt good, after a day of caution, to be moving up and down the piste with relative ease.

I'd decided early that this would be short evening. But before I left, I had a chance to fence with one of the coaches who didn't know about the muscle-strain. I was beginning to feel relaxed and reckless as the pain-killers kicked in. At first the coach just made me practise technique, though I wasn't too sure what I was doing. Then, seeing I was getting tired, he suggested as usual that we see who was the first to get two hits. It's never been me in the past, however much the coach invites a hit. Perhaps the pills subdued my certainty of defeat. I went for the first hit and caught the coaches arm. On the second point, I parried his attack and managed a chest hit. 2-0 to me.

Then I packed up my kit, heaved my backpack onto my shoulders and limped home.

Too little stabbing

2009-09-26T21:46:00.003+01:00

I've seen quite a few chandeliers during the summer but I didn't swing from any of them. I saw some horses and didn't leap on their backs. I've been up and down spiral staircases without a sword in my hand. I fear I've missed a few opportunities.

Now it's not summer any longer and I'm still not managing enough fencing. Last week there was a shortage of epeeists. I was tired and fed up at waiting an hour for a bout by which time I was tired, unhappy and fed up. Then a couple of really good fencers fenced me and gave me useful advice and I felt ashamed that I'd been upset earlier.

Every so often it's hard to find opponents, especially when the salle is so crowded. It happens to foilists and even, occasionally, to sabreurs. Usually I fence foil if there aren't any epeeists. This time I was slightly late - I needed to pump the bike's front tyre - and by the time I got there the foilists were all engaged in a fierce competition. After a while, watching other people while waiting and hoping began to pall. But I did enjoy my bouts when I got them.

This week I was, unusually, away on work and not back in time for fencing so I'm once again desperate to stab someone. I haven't yet become desperate enough to lurk in the High Street to challenge unwary shoppers ... but there's a few days to wait till my next fencing evening, so you never know.

I don't think I'll try fencing on spiral staircases, however. Too many of those I've seen are rather narrow and I'm not convinced either my bladework or more footwork has the necessary precision.

a hole in my hoodie

2009-08-13T21:47:00.002+01:00

My fencing hoodie is falling to bits. That ought to be a metaphor for something, but it's not. I have simply worn it out.

I noticed a problem with the cuffs months ago. Perhaps I should have found time to darn them then but I didn't. And the holes around the cuffs multiplies. I know darning is based on weaving but by now I'd almost be weaving more cuffs.

And now there a hole in the pocket - not the sort of hole where coins fall out but a hole through which anyone can look to see the too-large bundle of keys I shove in my pocket for convenience when going out. It's the usual bundle that has acquired all sorts of extras that aren't keys at all: the remains of a Paris key-ring my daughter gave me after a school trip, a picture of the children when they were both under 5 and - most usefully - an old-fashioned bottle opener. What with all the keys, it's not surprising there's a hole in the fabric. The key rings have worn there way through to the outside world.

Perhaps I could force a metaphor out of the hoodie, saying that I too am wearing out. But that would suggest I was once glamorous and effective as a fencer and I was neither. I'm continuing with my once-a-week attendance, unless something else crops up, and, for the first time, we're fencing through August. There's just two hours of free fencing and, at the moment, a serious shortage of epeeists. I mostly fenced foil this week.

There's not much new to say about my experience of foil fencing. I tend to attack like an epeeist, without the little pause foilists use as they take right of way from an opponent. This gives me a slight advantage at times, but not enough to compensate for lack of speed. But the foilists, who included a few visitors or new members, were a cheerful bunch and I enjoyed myself.

Watching was good too - not just seeing the skill of others but enjoying the splendid moment when an energetic fencer attempted a fleche, tripped over the box and tangled in the curtain that separates fencers from badminton players. For a wonderful moment I thought there was, at last, a chance for the sword v. racquet meeting of which I've been dreaming. However no badminton players or fencers were hurt in the making of this blog and the fencer, like his audience, was caught in the hilarity of his over-enthusiastic fleche. (He was a good fencer enjoying his sport who won the bout.)

I managed a little epee at the end against the architect - a woman who is smaller than me. Since the chef's departure for Paris I've mostly fenced men who are taller than me so have developed a tactic of moving in close so that they lose the advantage of reach. At the beginning of our bout, I scored two points, using the advantage of reach. Then habit took over and I got too close. Every so often I corrected myself and stayed away, working on parry ripostes. But I must have lost five points by reverting to my custom of seeking a close encounter. The architect, who is young and fast, won 10-7. She'd probably have won if I hadn't made the mistake of getting too close, but the bout would have taxed her more. However I enjoyed the bout for all my mistakes - the architect enjoys her fencing in a way that's irresistibly infectious.

The architect is back in town for a while. She doesn't usually fence epee but can handle all three weapons so I hope for further bouts. Meanwhile the chef, who is spending summer in the Antipodes, has not yet encountered - let alone fenced - any kangaroos.

"Fail again. Fail better."

2009-08-06T17:18:00.003+01:00

I'm back on Blogger. I didn't mean to take a break but life (and death) caught up with me, as they do. I've missed a couple of fencing evenings, once because I had to travel to the funeral of a friend and once because I was away at a Quaker event - Britain Yearly Meeting - where we finally and overwhelmingly reached the decision to treat same-sex marriages in the same way as opposite-sex marriages. It was quite an easy decision and relatively quick, given Friends' labyrinthine processes - it only took us twenty-two years.

In the meantime, my fencing has been erratic. I was greatly encouraged by a postcard from Beth at Screw Bronze which arrived just as I needed it. Losing a friend can make it hard to focus on anything and this friend worked hard at remembering to enquire after my fencing progress. There was even a phone-call once announcing that there had been fencing on the television. I was thrilled. "What weapon?" I asked. There was a pause, then a question in reply, "What's the difference?" But those regular enquiries helped immensely. It's ever so good when a friend takes an interest.

Back from the funeral, I found myself fencing a young woman of less than half my age who usually defeats me easily, even though foil is her main weapon. We agreed to fence to ten. I didn't feel like doing anything but decided I'd fence as if my friend was watching and supporting me. It felt good. I took the first two points, then we realised that there was a problem with the wiring. When it was corrected, we started again from zero and, yet again, I found I was two points up. I didn't seem likely to win, even with that advantage, but I determined to do my best.

Somehow, every time she caught up, I pulled ahead, never by more than one or two points. She drew level at 8 all and then I managed the hit that took me to 9-8. I wanted to get the next point and win the bout. As I darted forward with my blade, I felt her point attach on my arm. I was sure it was 9 all. But when I looked at the electric box I saw both red and green lights. It was a double - I'd done it and won 10-9.

After that my fencing slipped but it was good to know what winning felt like. I tried to remember that as my skill slipped in the rest of the evening - and in the club's one-hit epee contest where, to my surprise, I didn't come last. I gave advice to a couple of young sabreurs who were trying epee for fun - one hit me while my brief bout against the other ended in a "double defeat" (doubles lose in one-hit contests). I managed a solitary victory against a fencer who said he'd done what I warned him against last year - somehow he walked onto my sword. I knew that what I needed was the will to win - and, ideally, greater strength, speed and accuracy. The club president, who is in his 60s, had one of his frequent victories though he refused to take the sparkling wine which he had donated as the prize.

August is for free fencing and we have the hall for only two hours. I made it this week. Attendance had slipped to no more than thirty, mostly foilists and sabreurs. I spent some time fencing the only epeeist there - he's taking a break from coaching foil. Again I fenced as though I were showing a friend what fun it was - and I was faster, more varied and quicker to see openings. I may have achieved a hand hit by luck but it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been doing my best. I remembered to parry more and to follow each parry with the best attack I could manage, even though my wrists weren't quite strong enough to take my opponent's blade easily.

Towards the end, I began to tire and when my opponent suggested we fence to five my will to win had evaporated. He attacked more strongly and my defences were too slow and weak. He won 5-0. But he remarked that I had improved and was harder to hit, adding that in our preliminary fencing I'd managed five hits in a row, so I didn't feel so bad.

There were no other epeeists. Seeing a 12-year-old sitting at the edge of the hall, I asked her if she'd like to fence me at foil. It's sometimes hard for fencers of that age to challenge fencers who seem much older and more experienced. It was good for me to try the discipline of foil and good for my legs to take up the challenge of fencing someone much smaller than me. After only a year, my young opponent has a good stance and technique. Perhaps she'll move on to epee when she's bigger and stronger. (I won, by the way, though she'll probably beat me when she's a bit bigger. Still, it's important to remember that fencing is not just for the young.)

winded

2009-06-18T22:58:00.005+01:00

My opponent's arm was outstretched and, as I tried to parry an riposte, he evaded my blade. I must have been trying something fancy - perhaps advancing with a circular parry and accelerated lunge. His blade went forcefully and unerringly to the centre of my breastbone and I tried to gasp. Then I sank to my knees.

My opponent was horrified. He advanced again, this time to see if I was allright. "You do have a chest protector - right?" he asked. Wrong. I didn't. I economised with the two plastic saucers which fit in pockets in the inside or my fencing jacket - and his blade had found its way through the gap between them. I've contemplated the all-in-one chest protector, just as I've contemplated proper fencing socks and a side-fastening jacket, but I've never thought myself a sufficiently serious fencer for such extravagance.

The all-in-one might have been a good idea on this occasion.

It had all been going so well - unexpectedly well. I began by fencing the Man man, which usually heralds an evening of disasters. I was tired too but started with my new tactic of moving backward and forward and waving my blade around while keeping the point aimed firmly at my opponent's upper sword-arm. The moving is probably a bit lumbering when compared to most of my opponents, but it makes it harder for them to judge distance. Then, if I'm lucky, they will miscalculate a hit as they move in, giving me the opportunity to land a hit while my opponent's still off-guard. I still don't win but on a good day score many more hits.

The Man man wasn't used to all this movement. It must have put him off a bit (perhaps he was trying to restrain his laughter) as I achieved the first two hits in our bout, and that never happens. After that, he pulled ahead but I felt I was offering him decent opposition and the final score was 15-8. As we shook hands, he mentioned that I'd improved and was using new tactics.

But being winded didn't help. Even after I'd got back to my feet and continued the bout, I was finding it hard to breathe properly. My opponent was clearly trying to avoid the area between my neck and waist so practised hitting to the leg instead. I acquired a couple of large bruises - one just above the knee on each leg. The bruise on my right leg seems reasonable - an unfortunate result of an attempt to hit from a lunge. But that bruise on my left leg - my back leg!) - shows how shambling my performance had become. I'm not sure what I was doing but plainly my stance and footwork were rubbish. I continued fencing for a while - and tried my best against another opponent - but although I continued trying to vary my movements and change distance, I was still finding it slightly hard to breathe and the area around my breastbone continued to hurt.

Of course, it was varying the distance that caused the problem, forcing an opponent who usually hits lightly to hit harder, to be sure of attaching the blade. It's still a good tactic - and my breastbone still aches.

advantages of rest

2009-06-09T22:13:00.003+01:00

Football got in the way of my fencing plans the night Manchester United was beaten by Barca. I was late, the hall was half-empty and, although I got some fencing, it was all against the same opponent. I cycled away feeling disappointed and wishing I could find someone else to stab.

I was getting tired. My boss noticed and insisted I took some leave. Three whole days - and one of them a fencing day. For the first time in years I arrived at a fencing evening wide awake.

I felt the difference as soon as I had my epee in my hand. I was ready to fight and, if my charge down the piste was slightly ungainly, at least it took my opponents by surprise. That gave me an advantage and I need every avantage I can get.

Everyone I fenced commented on the change. I may not have beaten anyone but at times I came near. There were clumsy moments but I also achieved sufficient hits to the forearm and knee to give me new confidence. I still need to work on accuracy but nothing saps accuracy more than self-doubt.

I was exhausted but buzzing with happiness as I cycled home. If only every fencing night could be like that. If only my next fencing night could be like that. But it seems unlikely. A day of meetings and form-filling is not the best preparation for swordplay. I bet d'Artagnan and Cyrano never had to fill in lengthy forms stating how far they had fulfilled their aims and objectives, what they had learned from feedback and whether their duelling achievements constituted transferable skills.

still fencing

2009-05-23T08:21:00.006+01:00

I did continue fencing. For a week, I thought of giving up but it didn't seem right. I thought of two friends I've made through blogging.

There's Beth of Screw Bronze, who loved to fence epee - and was way better than me - who is now fighting a far harder battle as she lives with disability and terminal illness. Beth has been competing in wheelchair races and every yard she achieves is a victory. She sent me a postcard of a woman with a sword; she still thinks of me as a fencer.

Then there's Jim, the Gray Epee, who is still fencing but not nearly as much as he would like. Jim has been hit by the recession and had to tak a job far from family, home and fencing club. He still fences when he can. Again, he's a more dedicated fencer than me. He competes, coaches and gives support to fellow fencers but has had to cut his fencing to the few occasions he can manage.

For me, the alternative to fencing is not fencing. That would be worse. So I've been taking advice from fencing, working harder and doing just a little better.

I asked the teacher of epee classes to take more lessons. He resumed his classes last week. I wasn't too thrilled when he explained that this week's focus would be three types of fleche. The fleche is not a strategy I expect to employ. "It's not running," the coach told me, having seen my first attempt. "You have to fly through the air like an arrow." I know the theory - it's the practice that defeats me. But I tried to fly through the air while parrying the coach's blade and changing the line of engagement. He smiled encouragingly but I don't think he was impressed.

Later I told the foil coach who fences epee about this. He's an excellent teacher - I watch him with the new foilists and they are filled with enthusiastic confidence - but he doesn't teach epee. But when I told him I couldn't fleche he made me hold my sword out, then took it by the blade and pulled me forward. I wasn't exactly flying through the air but I moved forward forcefully and at speed - and without falling over. It was quite different to previous attempts to fleche. "That's a fleche," he said. "That's how I show the foilists." He did it again and I now know what a fleche feels like. I'm still not sure I'll be doing it in bouts but perhaps I can practise a bit on my own, if no-one's looking.

I think over the past three weeks I've been improving again. A few weeks ago the Man man beat me 15-1 without trying. I managed to improve to 15-5 and at the last session I managed 8 hits to his 15, rather to my surprise. OK, he was tired but I landed the hits. Four weeks ago I'd have missed.

I've been enjoying myself too. I'm feeling slightly fitter; I've been swimming twice and even attended a beginners' salsa class run by a colleague to raise money for charity. Salsa was fun but I on't have a great sense of rhythm - I think I'll stick to stabbing people.

Cycling to and from fencing has become a pleasure, except for the week when the sky opened and I was soaked before I reached the leisure centre. Clambering back into my sodden jeans and hoodie was a low point.

The scents of May are exceptionally vivid in this rainy Spring. On my last ride through the night, I suddenly recognized the cloying scent of orange blossom, then the sweet weight of lilac which hung heavy above the cycle track. I prefer the smell of long grass and cow parsley - the lacy flowers line the paths of the water meadows and are now at waist height. Birds scream incessantly with the urgency of Spring. And the other week I caught sight of a darker black crossing the drive just ahead of my bike. "Cat?" I thought at first. But I knew it wasn't a cat. I looked across the meadows to see if I could find it again and the lights picked up its shape, catching its eyes and transforming them to two yellow-green blurs. "Not a cat," I realised, checking the silhouette and registering the sharp ears and nose. The fox and I gazed at each other for a minute or so. Then it turned and merged into the dark of grass and flowers.

Fencing badly

2009-05-01T15:46:00.007+01:00

Perhaps it's because I turned down the invitation to swim and trimmed the hedge instead. Plainly an hour and a half clipping at privet with shears doesn't constitute exercise. And I didn't manage a decent cycle ride either.

But I didn't have the excuse of tiredness. I've been sticking to my resolution to have at least seven hours' sleep most nights. I run up and down the stairs at work. I hardly ever have a drink in the evening. Surely my fencing should have improved, especially after last week's coaching. But it didn't.

I dawdled along the cycle path, not because I wanted to cycle slowly but because four boys ahead of me were strung out across the path, having an animated conversation as they rode. I didn't feel inclined to overtake since it would have meant ringing my bell and demanding they get out of the way. So I dawdled in their wake.

There were three other epeeists looking for fights - all men, all younger and taller than me and two of them left-handed. They're experienced fencers too. While they always make sure I get my turn on the piste, I reckon that sometimes I'm a bit of a nuisance - however hard I work, I'm not going to reach their standard. And even as I wired up for my first fight, against the Man man, doubt and pessimism crept up on me.

The Man man wanted a quick, easy victory. He got it. As he scored hit after hit, I wilted, knowing my stance was wrong, knowing I should attack but without the will or energy to put things right. As I tried, belatedly, to correct my en garde position, I found I couldn't quite remember how to get it right. What, I wondered, was the point. I lost, 15-1.

I fenced the doc, who went easy on me, so I managed 5 hits to his 15. But I was sure he was letting me get the hits. Then I fenced my teacher from last week, who had been watching despairingly. He tried encouragement but I couldn't do it.

I wanted to slink off home. Instead, I fenced them all again, trying and failing to muster the determination that would help me improve.

I pulled up a little. My last two bouts saw me losing 15-7 (the last may have been 15-8). But I wasn't thinking strategically any more than I was fencing aggressively, speedily or accurately - and I couldn't work out how to get it right.

I cycled home, gloomily, wondering if it's worth continuing with fencing. Sometimes I enjoy it immensely. And sometimes I feel a fool for even trying to wield a sword.

bullet-proof tyres

2009-04-24T18:47:00.005+01:00

I forgot to take my bike to the repair shop until fencing day arrived and then the wonderful Mr PH was fully booked. He took my bike in but warned me it wouldn't be ready for two days. So I walked to fencing.

This was good for me, I decided. And as it was a warm Spring evening, I could enjoy the scent of flowers and grass which was so strong that it overcame the car-fumes from the busy road. By the time I turned into the long drive to the leisure centre and passed the water meadow, I was feeling calm, refreshed and ready to fence.

Of course, it wasn't quite as easy as that. First I had to scramble into my kit, remembering the string the body wires through my sleeve and slot the saucer-shaped breast protectors into the jacket's pouches. Then I had to find an opponent. To my surprise a teenager came up to me. We've had interesting discussions on pacifism - he favours bombing people and wants a career in the RAF while I go on demonstrations outside the local barracks. However, he wasn't looking for a discussion this time. Instead he suggested a bout at epee. We've fenced foil in the past and he's always claimed to despise the greater freedom of epee. Trying not to blink too much, I agreed and he went off to search the cupboard for one of the club's few epees.

I was waiting in the middle of the hall when another fencer came up to me and offered a coaching session. I wasn't sure whether I should accept, since I was waiting for the teenager, but I knew how much I wanted to be coached. The fencer offering to help me isn't one of the clubs coaches but he's an effective left-handed epeeist with immense patience and enthusiasm to improve the basic elements of my fencing which always need work. So I mentioned that I'd accepted the teenager's challenge and embarked on some intensive training. Then we began to work on my guard and my lunge.

It's particularly helpful to have a left-hander check my guard as against left-handers I'm much more vulnerable to attack on my right forearm. I began to work on getting my stance and the angle of my guard right. "That's it," my teacher enthused. "You need a good guard. I'm 6 foot 1 and that makes me work much harder to hit you." I didn't point out that, given his speed and accuracy, he would manage repeated hits in any case - I could see how much more effective my stance was. But every so often he would warn me, "It's drifting," and reminded me to raise my arm and look down the blade before lowering my elbow into the en garde position.

By this time the teenager had returned and was watching with interest. The lesson continued and we moved on to attacks and lunges. "You can lunge deeper than that - see how far you can reach!" I saw - it was further than I thought, even though my lunge isn't splendidly deep. We moved back and forth with me mirroring my teacher's steps until he lowered his left arm as a signal for me to hit. I was tiring a little which showed how unfit I was. But I worked on the hits. Finally we fenced to 5 - an easy win for my teacher but I managed one great hit - a circular parry followed by a neat hit to the top of his wrist. It surprised me and my teacher exploded with delight, thrilled at what I'd achieved. "That was a lovely hit," he told me. "Keep fencing like that. Be aggressive." So I tried and he won the rest of the points. But he congratulated me on my fencing. "Did you see how much better that was?" he asked. I had to acknowledge I did. "And it felt good too." He beamed as I freed myself from the ground wire.

The teenager still wanted to fence me. He asked about technique. I'm no expert but I tried to explain stance and guard, based on what I'd been practising. My tips for beginners are basic and mostly about keeping going, turning everything into an attack. But he still stood like a foilist and, for all his greater speed, which ensured he could land several good touches, I think I managed to surprise him with the number of hits I landed. As we stopped, another epeeist came over and I suggested he might show the teenager some further skills. It was a good chance to catch my breath, take a drink of water and chat to a colleague whose son is one of the intermediate foilists.

I managed one more bout and didn't do well. I remembered what my teacher had advised but only after my guard had drifted or I'd failed to secure a hit that could have been managed with a lunge. I picked up a bad bruise on my upper arm - a fair penalty for walking onto my opponent's blade. Still, it had been a good evening and I felt that my new regime of early nights and sufficient sleep was paying off. So I turned down invitations to the pub and walked home through the fragrant dark.

This morning I collected my bike. Mr PH hasn't merely replaced the inner tube. He's added a tyre lining which he assures me is also used to make bullet proof vests. So anyone who tries to shoot out my tyres is in for a shock. And I'm happily back on the roads (and cycle paths).

The snail's revenge

2009-04-19T16:13:00.007+01:00

Blogging stopped for a while but fencing continued. I discovered that fencing while tired achieved few immediate results other than bruises. I attempted to learn something that might be called the second counter-attack - or was it the second counter-riposte. I didn't achieve it very well - mostly I waved my sword around in a hopeful way, trying to hit the coach's blade a couple of times before attempting to control it, move it aside and move achieve a hit. The coach looked slightly despairing and his attempts at smiling encouragement were slightly strained.

I managed some sleep before the one-hit epee contest. In a work of fiction, that would lead to sudden brilliance and astounding success. In real life, I'm still unfit, in my mid-50s and, where fencing is concerned, a slow learner Moreover, despite being rested, I had developed a nagging headache which was only partly dispersed by paracetemol.

Still, there were undoubted advantages to having slept. I thought more strategically than in previous weeks and worked out some good ways to win points. For example, I usually attack against one fencer so I decided to retreat and invite him to attack me so that I could use some of the new parries I'd learned. He seemed slightly puzzled, then moved forward, evaded my blade which was probably signalling its readiness to parry, and hit me neatly. Then I launched into a fierce attack on a fencer who points out that I fence him over-defensively. I remembered to get my stance right and moved forward as fast as I could. There were a few clashes of blades before he landed the hit. He assured me I was doing it right and politely didn't add that he was the better fencer.

There were two fencers against whom I thought I stood a chance. But the other woman in the contest, a foilist less than half my age and a beginner at epee, had the speed and agility I lacked and won her point quickly. And fencing one of the coaches - a good fencer but I've occasionally been lucky against him - we both went for a quick hit and scored a double. By the rules of one-hit epee, that's a double defeat.

A new fencer had joined us - an epeeist who had been a good student fencer but hadn't fenced for 21 years. He was causing the experienced fencers some difficulty and I couldn't see that I had any chance of beating him. I wired up feeling curious and prepared for defeat. My only hope seemed to be a quick attack as male fencers don't expect that from an older woman. I think he was surprised but not as surprised as I was when I realised his counter-attack had landed flat. I'd continued my attack as taught by a coach who makes us go for three successive hits (wrist/forearm, upper arm, chest) and, because I hadn't paused, it was I who had landed the successful hit.

It was my only win of the evening. Puzzled and slightly dazed by this sole success, I initially forgot the routine courtesy of shaking my opponent's hand and had to run after him to apologise. Luckily he's still talking to me - and still fencing me. He has sufficient experience as a fencer to give me useful advice but, as he's still regaining his accuracy, I can gain some hits against him. It won't last. I can see from the glow in his eyes that he's a good epeeist out of practice - I'm just waiting to see how good.

The evening's trophy - an Easter egg - was won by the Man man after a play-off against the club's president, who had donated the egg. And there were small chocolate creme eggs for the rest of us - and enough over for fencers who were practising other weapons.

The day after the one-hit epee, I headed off on a holiday which included the chef's birthday celebration at her apartment in Paris. I'm sad to report that she has not continued with her fencing in France and there was no swordplay at her party (perhaps because the apartment is not big enough). There was plenty of delicious food, however, as well as a lavish variety of gin-based cocktails. As it was my host's birthday the following day, I wasn't sure I'd still fit into my breeches on my return to England. It took a few deep breaths.

I thought the cycle ride to fencing would help me achieve fitness. It didn't. My bike had a serious puncture and I had to walk. At least I could enjoy the birdsong and the scents of spring. And I enjoyed the fencing even though there's no coaching in epee during the Easter holidays (coaches have holidays too). I was glad to see that the new epeeist had returned - there seems to be a good chance that he'll be a regular attender. I fenced a little and walked home. Two days later, I took my bike to the repair shop rather than struggle with the puncture alone. This meant I could have an Easter Monday bike ride as well as cycling to fencing.

It felt good to be on my bike again. The following week I headed off happily and enjoyed the evening, although I spent more time in conversation and less in fencing than I had planned. Now that I'm spending more time asleep I'm enjoying the fencing much more and can even make modest improvements.

I was reflecting on how good the evening had been as I wheeled the bike to it's usual place before locking it. Then, just beside the house, I heard an ominous sound. "A puncture," I thought and looked at the ground to see what I'd run over. I couldn't see anything that would have damaged the bike - just the remains of a snail whose shell I must have crushed. I was sorry about the snail but relieved about the bike.

I was relieved too soon. This morning I unchained my bike and prepared to set off for Quaker Meeting. As soon as I mounted it I realised that the front tyre was flat again. I think it's the snail's revenge. I'm seriously contemplating anti-puncture tyres.

And I'm hoping to return to regular blogging.

stabbing no-one

2009-03-22T15:41:00.003Z

I planned to fence. Even when I realised I was ill, and couldn't get to work, I reckoned I could stay in bed all day, then get up in the evening. Rested and miraculously cured, I'd be able to stab people again. At 6.00 p.m. I lay asleep and wondered if I could manage it.

It was only a virus - one that causes sore throats. slight temperatures and acute weariness. My legs ached. I'd been in work the day before and knew I must be there the day after, for a 12-hour day. But I'd done the sensible thing. I had taken paracetemol and slept. Surely I was well enough to get up, climb onto my bike, cycle to the leisure centre and indulge in a little light stabbing.

My legs disagreed. Half an hour later I'd got no further than sitting on the side of the bed. I thought I might get downstairs - just not yet. My throat ached and my head was hot. I gave up.

I managed supper and more sleep. And the next day I managed my 12-hour day. (But it's probably just as well that no-one caught me having a little extra sleep on the office floor between meetings).

arrivals and parries

2009-03-13T08:33:00.004Z

"An epeeist, obviously," I declared, looking at the new arrival.

"Sabre, sabre, sabre," chorussed the sabreurs.

"She'd better start with foil," a more thoughtful fencer suggested.

The new arrival didn't state her opinion. She didn't even open her eyes. At ten days, weighing just over six pounds, the future fencer slept in her father's arms. In her small pink dress and long white socks she wasn't really dressed for combad. As blades clashed in the packed hall, the new arrival was passed from fencer to fencer. Foilists and sabreurs discarded their lames so that the rough metallic surface wouldn't scratch her. Her mother, more familiar with fencers than motherhood, enjoyed the chance for conversation, I think.

It was a while before I dragged myself away to the epee class. I was enjoying the sight of so small and contented a human being. But epee called.

The usual coach was away so one of the most experienced coaches took over. He led us through a return to basics: hitting to wrist, forearm and body - first from standing, then with movement and then including a parry. My accuracy and recall wavered as I tried to include a parry to quarte before hitting the chest. How could I miss so large a target? I wondered. My blade began to glide over the forearm instead of attaching. The coach took me through it again and again until, finally, I managed to land all my hits in sequence.

There's something reassuring about getting something right, even if it's simple and even when I've had a great deal of practice. I moved on to a couple of bouts - and for once I wasn't feeling tired.

I wasn't sure I'd learnt anything in the last weeks of coaching. The problem didn't lie with the coach but with my own exhaustion - how could I have taken anything in? But I was cheered by a lucky wrist-hit, in which, without premeditation or much control, I angled my blade that it slid down to graze my opponent's guard. And I found myself moving better than for a while and - in combat - putting the new parries into practice.

My attempt at a parry in seconde wasn't graceful but it took my opponent by surprise. This gave me a chance to move my blade back up and land a chest hit. Further encouraged by my success, I began to vary my tactics. My opponent was a better and more experienced fencer than me - he'd taught me in my early days of epee when no coaches were available - but although he landed more hits than me, I was doing far better than usual. I accelerated forward with a circular parry and landed a hit. Then I started retreating to see if I could catch him as he attacked. I couldn't - at least, not the first time, but the second time I tried it the box showed a double. I tried the parry in seconde again - and again scored a hit. It was feeling good.

I was tired at the end of the evening - properly tired, with the kind of physical exhaustion that leads to a good night's sleep. As for the new arrival, she left when I did, having slept through everything.

"run forward as fast as you can and keep attacking"

2009-03-07T23:22:00.010Z

My evening of fencing began and ended with a crime.

I'm usually a law-abiding individual though lately so many laws have been passed in Britain that it's probably impossible to avoid committing a couple of cimes a day. However I prefer to break laws by accident or for ethical reasons rather than for my own benefit. But I have to admit that, when I last went fencing, I did break the law.

I was looking forward to the epee class. For the first time in weeks I wasn't entirely exhausted. I was worried about work, however, and thought that a bit of stabbing was just what I needed. It was a bit of a rush but I got my kit together, slung my swords over my should and prepared to mount my bike.

I turned on the back light - no problem. I went to turn on the front light. It wasn't there. There was no time to walk, even if I'd had the energy. There wasn't even time to wait for a cab. I thought about the route. There's a short stretch of road - a few yards - before the cycle path begins. The cycle path is well-lit and I'm not sure whether cyclists are compelled to have lights as it's not, strictly speaking, a public highway. And then there's the driveway to the leisure centre. I don't know if it's a public highway or not. I know I can walk on it legally - but I never feel safe doing that as there's no pavement. I looked at my legs. They were bright in white breeches and socks. I decided I was probably sufficiently vsisible. I got on my bike and cycled all the way.

As I arrived in the leisure centre car park, a woman kindly pointed out that my front light wasn't on. I explained my dilemma and apologised. She said my back light wasn't very bright either. I suppose it isn't. I apologised about that too. Then I went to the epee class.

We began with parries. I felt more confident than usual, probably because they were relatively easy: direct parry, circular parry, semi-circular parry. It was like doing foil again except that, as epeeists, we were expected to complete each parry by landing a hit.

The coach was encouraging. I watched the other epeeists take turns. We're not really the beginners' group that was planned. We'd been joined by an epeeist who gave mesome of my first lessons in the weapon. Every epeeist in the club joins the beginners' epee class from time to time - and the coach is a sabreur. All the same, we're learning.

Sometimes we're puzzled about what is required. I was uncertain about a long list of instructions which included the sinister words "reprise" and "redouble." After he'd returned from what looked like a longish bout, I asked my former epee teacher what the coach required. "Just run forward as fast as you can and keep attacking," he replied. I had a few goes and eventually I managed to respond to everything the coach did with an attack of my own. It wasn't great.

I knew I had to leave early - I had a very early start at work the following day. But I managed a few hits against the other (young) woman in the ill-named "beginners" group. She really is a beginner at epee, though an excellent foilist and - dangerously - a left-hander. Her experience in foil gave me a slight advantage since she still tends to pause after parries as though establishing right of way. It was only a knockabout but for once I managed to land a few more hits than she did. Then I packed my kit, mounted my bike and headed - illegally - home.

It's possible that my illegal cycling covered no more than 15 yards if, as I hope, the cycle path and drive-way don't count as public highway. It still wasn't a good idea. I've found my front bike-light now - evidently it fell off when I last unloaded my bicycle basket. But the woman at the leisure centre was right - neither light is very strong. Perhaps I should buy another set of lights .... or would that be bad for the planet?

blood ....!

2009-02-26T21:15:00.004Z

Too much of fencing was a blur of tiredness. I knew I was too tired but I also knew the effect of a week off fencing. Anyway, I'd been tired for weeks - and I was determined to follow the epee course.

There were only three of us. The doc and the Man man seemed filled with energy and concentration. My mind wandered. The coach demonstrated a parry in seconde - "a strong parry", he said. I waved my epee around trying the move in mid-air. It seemed manageable.I tried it against the coach. Definitely a strong parry, and one I hadn't used before.

Things got harder with the next sequence which involved hitting the wrist, moving backwards and then parrying to another hit. I couldn't do it. And things got worse as we lunged and reprised at speed down the piste. At least, the doc and the Man man were speedy - I achieved a moderately paced shuffle with the occasional bend of the knees. After some encouragement, I repeated the procedure while waving my sword about. I wasn't sure quite what I was supposed to do with it but some kind of energetic display seemed to be required. In the one-hit epee at the end I achieved a surprising hit on the Man man, possibly because, given my previous incompetence, he didn't expect me to move faster than a slug.

I meant to go home them but the Man man offered to fence me on the electric piste. I knew it was a bad idea even as I said yes. His second hit was a textbook example of how to glide down an opponent's blade to land a hit. He landed it hard on the inside of my elbow, sliding his blade at an angle that reached just below my plastron. He looked shaken. "Are you OK?" he asked. It seemed that stoicism was required - and no blood was actually leaking through my jacket.

I tried to look brave and continued. Two more points, and he landed another hit in the same place. We continued. He hit me again and again. I tried to fight back and managed a couple of hits including one on his big toe. I tried to repeat the feat and hit the floor a few times. At last I gave up. We shook hands and I began to remove my kit. It was still early but the tiredness was winning.

Slowly I discarded my jacket, coiled my bodywire and put it with the protectors and glove in my mask.. I eased my plastron over my stiffening right arm. As I thought, there was blood - but not much. Just a graze - painful when touched and slightly swollen. I showed off my wound - it was the nearest I had to proof that I was a proper fencer. I'm not sure anything I did that night really counted as fencing. Then I put on my hoodie and jacket, slung my sword and rucksack onto my back and cycled off into the dark.

slow motion parries

2009-02-22T20:10:00.004Z

"There are nine parries in epee," the coach began, and proceeded to demonstrate them all. After the first three, I was lost. These weren't simple or circular parries but the various position in which an epeeist could hold back the advance of an opponent. "When would I use that?" doc wondered as the coach demonstrated a particularly high parry. "I'd use it against a tall opponent - like you," the coach responded.

We moved on to a complicated parry involving a beat against the blade to draw the attack followed by a rapid corkscrew movement which was supposed to circle the blade while advancing, bind it, hold it out of the way and slide in for a hit. I think it may have been called a progressive covered parry but I was concentrating so hard on the movement that there was no space in my brain for what it was called. I stood with the brunette watching the doc and the Man man try the parry. They didn't seem to find it that easy but I assumed that the coach was making things hard for them. Then it was my turn to fail.

I think the coach was getting a little despondent by then. He tried to encourage us with some simple tests. But we couldn't demonstrate nine parries nor explain the difference between reprise and remise. So we went back to a simple warm-up - moving up and down the piste and hitting to wrist. Then the coach added a leather chap - the kind that cowboys wear - so that we could hit to his leg as well. After the inevitable joke about horses and sabreurs, we managed rather better. This was a simpler and more familiar task. And after that the progressive covered parry - or whatever it was called - seemed to work rather better. At any rate, I managed it in slow motion, though I don't think that will be particularly helpful in a real bout.

We finished with a round of one-hit epee and then the brunette and I, too tired to wait for an electric piste, persuaded another coach to ref while we fenced steam to five. The brunette has the advantage of height and being a left-hander (and being younger than me) but I've been fencing longer. I'm never quite sure how reliable a ref can be when epeeists fence steam so I'm not entirely convinced I won 5-4. Still, the evenness of the bout was a pleasure. But I wish I weren't so tired in the evenings. It seems a shame to leave before the fencing has finished - but it would be a bigger shame to fall off my bike on the way home.

missing the moment

2009-02-13T08:40:00.002Z

"It's - - - ," the coach said.

I didn't catch the word and wouldn't have understood it anyway.

"That's Polish," he explained. "In French it's 'a propos.' In English it's - something like - the moment. You have to find the moment and take it."

The coach was explaining the remise which was. he said, at the heart of epee. He'd already described epee as a real duelling weapon with such enthusiasm he warmed us all. We almost forgot that his chief loyalty was to sabre. We'd warmed up with hits to the forearm while moving, then practised taking the blade and binding in it in a counter-attack. (There's not much defence in epee. Even retreats are conducted with an arm outstretched, blade to lead ready for the slightest chance to dart forward for the hit.) But the remise is trickier. Instead of sticking close to the opponent's blade, it is, as our coach explained it, a matter of looking for the split second when an opening appears, changing the line of attack from a standing position, and going for the hit.

I couldn't get it. I was too slow. The moment was too brief - I needed closer to a minute. Finally I managed a couple of clumsy hits in a different line, well aware that the coach was in slow motion.

Worse followed. We were to attack, redouble, redouble and hit - at speed. This meant a succession of lunges - reprise after reprise - down the length of the piste. I don't achieve beautiful low lunges and I'm not fast at moving in and out of a lunge. There were four of us. Two have been fencing epee longer than I've been fencing any weapon and the third is a young, graceful, experienced foilist looking to add another weapon. They sped down the piste, moving in and out of lunges till, with the final stretch at the end of the piste, they landed their hits. Then it was my turn.

I lumbered up and down, with the shallowest lunges I dared, fearing my right knee would give way as I tried to recover.but determined, at least, to reach the end of the piste without falling over. It wasn't much of ambition but at least I stayed upright and hurled my blade roughly in the direction of my waiting coach. Not surprisingly, he hit me first.

And then the coaching session was near its end and the coach was promising more difficult tasks in the future. We ended with a quick round of one hit epee. To my surprise, I managed a single hit - on the Man man - and then it was over.

The foilist donned her lame and joined the historian on the piste. (His appearance as a foilist was startling but it's better for his injured elbow.) There was a queue for the electric pistes and the hall was still crowded. I invited the doc to a quick steam bout, assuring him it could end when the Man man secured a box. I just wanted some real fencing before going home. The bout was brief but pleasing.

Then, still tired, I left the hall. Long days at work are still exhausting me. The cold hit me as I mounted my bike. I ascribed it to the tiredness until I got home and tried to open the wheelie bin. The lid had frozen shut. The next day, it was warmer. It snowed again.

epee classes

2009-02-07T19:31:00.003Z

After swimming, I looked forward to fencing and the new, fitter me. I made up my mind. I would swim every weekend and join the beginners' epee course for regular coaching. Sadly the Saturday-morning fencing has ended for now and is moving further away. I may be able to get a lift occasionally but not every week. So the best I can do is fencing once a week plus swimming and a lot of running up and downstairs at work.

That was the theory, anyway. It's been complicated lately.

I had to plan carefully. For four weeks in a row, fencing day is the busiest of my working week. I have to get up as soon after 5 as I can to drink coffee, eat breakfast, make my packed lunch and get ready. I move slowly in the early morning. I leave before daylight and return long after dark. But it seemed just possible that, if I caught the right train, I could get changed quickly and cycle to fencing. I'd just be a little late. I tried not to think too much about the following morning, when I'd be up at 5.00 again.

The first week was tricky. There was an event at work that I probably should have attended. But not only did I want to fence, I also didn't think I could face a working day lasting more than 12 hours with a minimal chance of a break. I decided not to go. Instead I would rush home, rush out and stab people.

It didn't work like that.

The train arrived in the station on time and I caught it. It departed only five minutes late. Then, ten minutes into the journey, it halted, vast fields of dark on either side. It was some time before any announcement. Then we were told that there had been a "fatality on the line" and the pause turned into a long wait.

Eventually the train took a detour and deposited us all at the town that was its ultimate destination. Unfortunately it had bypassed my stop. The train staff said there would be a bus. The station staff said they didn't know anything about that but that there might be a train. There were quite a few of us on the platform, not wanting to complain about minor inconvenience when we knew others must be struck by grief, but still wanting to get home.

The trains started running again sooner than we'd feared but my 25-minute journey had taken two hours. It was too late for fencing.

I joined the epee class the following week. It wasn't full of beginners but included a couple of people who regularly beat me on the epee piste. Like me, they wanted more coaching - and going back to basics is a good way to begin.

By this time my plans for fitness were beginning to unravel. My laptop was playing up and I started carrying it everywhere with me, hoping someone could solve the problem. The extra weight tired me and I began taking the lift at work. I didn't blog either. The invasion of malware made me uneasy and it was almost a week till I was given useful advice about the free version of malware bytes (and how to open the computer in safe mode to download it). What with the tiredness, I didn't have much to inspire a blogpost either.

Then my daughter came home for the weekend. Most of her time was spent seeing friends, of course, and I missed Meeting to see her off. I didn't go swimming either. And, as my computer slowly convalesced, I began to feel bad about the gap in blogposts. I started a couple of posts but whenever I started the phone would ring or I'd be overcome by tiredness.

But I'm back now. And I managed to fence again last week - just for the epee class as I was too tired to do more. Yet I managed a series of accurate hits and reasonable counter-attacks. I may have been the slowest there - and was certainly the most exhausted - but I managed a little fencing at the end of a long day. And that was some sort of achievement. (And I got into work by 8.15 the following morning, despite snow and ice and blocked roads and railway lines. But that's another story.) .

the holiday problem

2009-01-19T20:45:00.002Z

It was a very good Christmas dinner. There were lots of treats over the season, from Christmas cake to gluehwein. Because of the cold, I didn't go out much but sat at home, as close to a heater as I could manage. I had a few anxieties as the return to fencing approached. Some were to do with my general unfitness but others were connected with the more serious problem: would I still fit into my breeches. They are always slightly tight after washing and relax as I move in them but this time I feared a serious problem. I was right to worry. The phone rang as I was getting changed and it was hard to explain the strange noises caused by breathing in and tugging hard at the zip.

I decided not to bother with jeans over breeches and cycled off, white-legged, toward the leisure centre. After the effort to squeeze into my breeches, they seemed to shape themselves around me well enough. They haven't split so far, at least.

Fencing was another matter. I was plainly out of practice and prepared for the familiar sensation of fencing through jelly. I welcomed the pauses for conversation, hearing tales from the first competition of the year, in which club fencers had done well. Less frequent fencers had shared the anxiety about breeches although the Man man proclaimed proudly that he hadn't put on a single pound over Christmas. As I don't possess scales I don't worry about what I weight - it seems more important to know how much energy I have and whether my clothes still fit. And I certainly don't regret good holiday food and drink - the highlight was an excellent New Year's Eve dinner cooked by the chef, preceded by champagne and accompanied by fine wine.

Eventually I turned to fencing and was pleased that the good epeeists who turned up seemed happy to spend time encouraging me. While I was slow, I could, on occasion, be accurate and was happy to land a fair number of arm-hits. A particularly helpful left-hander worked on my en garde, which had slipped, as though he had never mentioned it before, He helped me to change my stance and I suddenly felt more comfortable. He even praised my attempts at lunges, which weren't very deep.

I fenced the four other epeeists who were free and then left early - I was tired and had an early start the following morning. But I determined to take more exercise.

For months I'd been turning down Sunday invitations so that I could do housework and work. But when, at Meeting, one of my friends suggested a swim, more out of habit than anything else, I said yes. As soon as I got home I packed my black Speedo with a towel, shampoo and shower gel - and wondered if I could remember how to swim. The lengths at the public baths are 25 metres and I set myself the goal of 30 lengths in the medium lane.

It was neither a disaster nor a triumph. I stopped after every six lengths for half a minute or so, and began to feel a little tired after 28 lengths. I did my 30, pulled myself out of the pool and headed to the showers, where I enjoyed the treat of some Christmas shower gel from my daughter. It got rid of the chlorine smell very nicely.

So I'm not fit and can only just squeeze into my breeches. But I'm still fencing.

sparkling

2009-01-16T22:53:00.006Z

It was nearly time for the fencing Christmas dinner. A little late, perhaps - I'd taken down my Christmas tree the previous day - but the fencing club tradition includes a Christmas dinner when the holiday season had ended.

I hadn't exactly solved my fashion dilemma but I'd reached an accommodation with it, thanks to the discovery of an old, but quite well-cut, black wool dress in the back of my wardrobe. I bought it years ago to look smart in an understated sort of way and thought it might be possibly to add something glittery. I planned to buy a red scarf to go with my new red handbag, or something in pale grey and silver, so that I could wear my new grey shoes. As I hate shopping, I found excuses to avoid trips to the shops, thinking I could leave it a day or two. Then work got busy in the week of the dinner and I hadn't bought the scarf I wanted. I settled on a green shawl with sparkly thread and added long sparkly earrings with a matching necklace. I even found my old make-up bag. There was some powder left, the lipstick hadn't broken and the mascara still worked! I felt remarkably lucky. It must be nearly six months since I last wore make-up - probably on my trip to see Cyrano de Bergerac at the Comedie Francaise. By the time I'd stepped into my black high-heeled shoes I felt almost glamorous.

It didn't last of course. An old dress, a shawl, some jewellery and make-up were never going to compete with the colourful cocktail dresses on display. I felt a bit like the dowager aunt or the governess in the corner when I saw all the frocks. The men were peacocking too, with their bow ties, dinner jackets and colourful waistcoats. I wondered if I should sit with the children and waved at a young fencer, shyly elegant in red, who was present with her father. But one of the epeeists called hallo from the bar, following this with the welcome words, "What would you like?" With a glass of wine in my hand, I began to relax.

The meal was better than I'd expected and the kitchen staff, learning I was one of the two vegetarians, were quick to assure me that the potatoes had been roasted in oil and the Yorkshire puddings cooked in butter. There was a good range of vegetables to go with my quorn fillet and the meal brought back memories of the sort of meals my family used to enjoy on special Sundays: good, filling food in lavish quantities. I had melon with sorbet to start and crumble to finish, followed by coffee.

But no-one goes to the fencing dinner just for the meal. There was a quiz and there were awards so it was a time of celebration. I joined others sitting at my table for the quiz and found that I knew some things that my fellow team-members didn't. Usually I contribute literary knowledge but this time my successes include correct answers to questions on sport (In which year did a British man last win the singles title at Wimbledon?), science (How is ascorbic acid better known?) and pop music (Which was the highest selling British single of 2008?). I hope my knowledge took the sabreurs in the team by surprise as it certainly startled me. When the answers were checked it turned out that we had won. So I began the year with a fencing-related victory, even if it didn't involve any swordplay. But the sense of friendship and camaraderie was better than the food or winning the quiz.

A lavish dinner with wine may not be the best preparation for the fencing season but, as I teetered home through the frost, I felt it had been a good night out.

As for those quiz questions, it's easy enough to find out the answers to the sport and science questions. And here's a clue to the pop question though unfortunately the composer and performer on the video didn't reach number one with his version of the song.

but what shall I wear ...?

2008-12-29T17:20:00.007Z

The fencing club dinner approaches. I don't go every year but this year. budgeting carefully, I chose it over the slightly more expensive work Christmas dinner. The food won't be so good (the venue has unadventurous ideas on what vegetarians eat) but I'll enjoy the company and won't feel compelled to be on my best behaviour. But this sets up a difficult problem. The dinner has a dress code.

Last year the rules were simple: no jeans or trainers. A simple blouse and skirt sufficed. But the committee, perhaps overpowered by the vision of elegance so many created last year, have come up with a stricter dress code. The man are asked to wear dinner jackets with bow ties or suits and ties. And the women are expected to turn up in cocktail dresses.

I don't have a cocktail dress. I don't even know what a cocktail dress is. I'm reluctant to purchase anything that sounds so extravagant in these cash-strapped times, especially since it might require the additional purchase of cocktail shoes, if such items exist. Nonetheless, I spent part of two days wandering in and out of shops, looking for second-hand items in charity shops or bargains in the sales.

It wasn't a success. I returned home from one excursion with two pairs of gloves (my hands were cold and there was a special offer of two pairs for £1). And I came home from the other carrying - with some difficulty - a new mop and broom. Perhaps I was inspired by thoughts of Cinderella. But I fear my fairy godmother's unlikely to appear.

I've been searching the internet for ideas. But although I've found pictures of cocktail dresses and women with swords, I haven't yet found the sort of cocktail dress that goes well with an epee. And the costume question is taking up far too much of my time.

I wonder if men have the same anxieties. Perhaps they all have decent suits and ties. (It might be more fun if women wore suits and men wore the cocktail dresses - I'd like to see them manage high heels and I'm sure the Oxfam shop would supply me with a suitable tie.) But, much as I admire the extravangant costumes of 17th century fencers, I also look back with nostalgia to an era where a fencer could wear casual clothes to fight with elegant courage - even in a great fortress.

sabreur versus snowman

2008-12-20T11:30:00.013Z

Festive fencing is an odd concept but, in our club, it's become an annual Christmas tradition. The week after the one-hit epee, we conclude the year by decorating masks, jackets, breeches and swords - and then fencing, more or less seriously, in costume.

It's not easy to find a way of decorating fencing kit that will survive a bout - only a skilled engineer dare risk a sword decorated with (sturdy) fairy lights. One fencer chose lights inside a mask as a safer option. I'd have worried about hitting the small epeeist while she wore lights on her jacket.

My own solution involved a hasty visit to Poundstretcher on the way to work. I'd decided a headband was probably the best solution, coupled with tinsel. Antler headbands are particularly popular but Poundstretcher didn't have any. Instead I settled on a lilac headband with two all-purpose festive figures bouncing happily on springs six inches above the band. I'm still not entirely sure what the figures are supposed to be. They had jolly faces and fluffy Father Christmas beards which turned into white snowy bodies and they wore the kind of hats that are usually associated with Albus Dumbledore. The tinsel was a slightly sad selection - there was nothing as glamorous as the black and gold (club colours) that I'd adopted last year. But there was something called "marabou" in lilac and I thought I could wear that like a feather boa.

I still had the decorations in a bag when I arrived, slightly late, for fencing. But a fellow fencer, wearing a miniature Christmas tree on his mask, helped me by securing the headband with garden twine while an old Quaker badge saying "ONLY JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE" secured the marabou boa to my jacket. I didn't dare look in the mirror but I felt that I had made a proper attempt at looking festive. And the figures on my headband were, by general agreement, identified as snowmen.

I briefly noted the bemused looks from people passing along the gallery corridor - I suppose there was something slightly odd in a fencer disguised as Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer fencing Father Christmas, but I was soon involved in watching bouts and then started fencing epee against an opponent wearing a brown woolly hat with gold tinsel and peacock feathers. The tiredness and gloom of winter seemed to have entered my fencing and at first I couldn't land any hits. Meanwhile my opponent was filled with seasonal joys which gave him extra speed and agility. I took a few bruises before I began to fence with any conviction and, even then, was too aware of my lack of speed to do well. But evidently my opponent enjoyed it because, a little while after we had finished, he suggested we fence sabre (his preferred weapon). After explaining my lack of expertise with sabre - I began by asking "am I holding this right?" - we fenced a few points and I tried to respond to my opponent's encouragement. But that was when the disaster occurred. Sabre is, as I have frequently remarked, a nasty, slashy weapon - the weapon of the Peterloo Massacre. And the sabre did its nasty, slashy work, ripping one of the snowmen (or santas or Albus Dumbledores) off the headband and sending it spinning across the hall. Concealing my grief, I put the dead snowman safely to rest on my kit-bag and continued fencing.

There was a sad shortage of epeeists at the festive fun-night but the fencer who'd helped me fix my costume has some skill in epee (and had done much better than me in the one-hit competition). I therefore suggested he lay down his foil and pick up his epee for a final bout. Perhaps he was looking rather tired but so was I. However, I thought I had a chance.

I tried to fix the dead snowman back onto my mask while my opponent adjusted the 18-inch Christmas tree he was wearing on his head. It was a particularly attractive tree, garnished with red bows and small packages - nothing exceptional or distracting in the general array of festive costumes. We decided to use the piste with new fencing scoring kit which registered hits in big numbers. Being uncertain about how it worked, we asked abother fencer to ref. He was a bit snooty about the ease of reffing epee bouts (no complex descriptions of the fencing phrase, no determination of right of way) and sat on the floor to watch.

My opponent's tiredness seemed an illusion - he raced ahead. Soon he was 7-1 up - and my only point came from a double. Then I landed a neat hit to his forearm which landed just ahead of his point. 7-2.

That filled me with enthusiasm, if not skill. There's one piece of training that usually kicks in when I'm fencing: the advice that if you miss the first hit you continue the attack. My went for my opponent's arm, he took evasive action, and I landed my hit square on his mask. It wasn't just 7-3 to me - the force of my hit toppled my opponent's Christmas tree and he was doubled over with laughter as the tree drooped in front of his eyes.

He pushed the tree to one side and we continued but I think my hit, and his laughter, had affected his momentum. And I'd begun to gain confidence. At the end of the first time period he was still ahead but only by 13-11. Silly costumes or not, I was determined to do my best and filled with the will to win.

My first hit after the break landed squarely on my opponent's chest - and didn't register on the box. The ref had been unaware of a button that should have been touched on the remote control. "Can I have the point anyway?" I pleaded ... but the ref said no. The scoring box sprang back into life, my opponent yet again pushed the tree to the side of his mask, and we started fencing again. I scored. 13-12. And again: 13-13.

By this time I was determined to end the fencing year with a victory. The will to win took over, probably disconcerting my opponent who was still contending with a felled tree. I hit again - 14-13 up - and was in the lead for the first time. For a moment I could foresee the most likely conclusion: my opponent would draw level and then win the final point. I brushed the thought aside, noticed my opponent was tiring, and took my time, letting him move forward and backward on the piste. Then I launched my attack. 15-13. I don't know how I scored that final point but I do know I ended the year on a win. I know my opponent was tired and hampered by a falling Christmas tree but my victories are rare enough for me to treasure them all.

And now fencing is over for the year but the chef is back on a visit and we're planning to drink gluehwein together soon in a festive celebration.

one hit

2008-12-20T10:49:00.005Z

Sometimes fencing doesn't go well. I was feeling a little down when I headed for the one-hit epee but tried to convince myself I'd enjoy it. All went well until the club president, who donated the coveted chocolate Santa trophy, informed us that, as there were sixteen of us, we'd be fencing in two poules of eight instead of the usual poule unique. Sadly I looked at the list and decided I was grouped with seven people I had no chance of hitting on a first point.

There are a few people in the club I can, on occasion, take by surprise. But these don't include people who have coached me. And they certainly don't include the club's sabreurs, who are fast, effective and ready for anything.

It wasn't a good attitude to start with. I tried to watch the bouts and determined to move more than usual on the piste. But pretty soon I'd lost my first two bouts and with those defeats, my enthusiasm for the evening was waning. I began to think my attempts at fencing were ludicrous. Then, in my third bout, I heard a voice cheering me on. I still lost, but felt immensely encouraged. And in my fourth bout - against the man who'd cheered me on and always encouraged me - I scored a hit. It landed on his forearm. I don't know if he made it easy for me but, if he did, at least I scored the point. I would rather have landed a hit on a different fencer but I still felt good because I wasn't going to finish the evening without a point.

That was my only point but, when I checked the sheets at the end, I found it meant I hadn't come last. A fencer in the other poule - a better and more experienced fencer specialising in sabre - hadn't managed a hit. He didn't seem too downcast and I felt a lot better.

Semi-finals followed. Three sabreurs had qualified and one epeeist - the doc. The sabreurs got together to cheer the sabreurs. The epeeists - a quieter group - offered words of encouragement to the doc. And finally epee skills won through. It was lovely to watch the doc's light and accurate touch as he waited for his moment in semi-final and final. It was his second consecutive victory in the one-hit epee and he held his chocoalate trophy aloft.

There were plenty of small chocolate santas for the rest of us.

neat hands

2008-12-04T21:50:00.003Z

Like most fencers, I admire good qualities and skills that I lack. There are plenty of those. For instance, almost all fencers are faster and more accurate than me. I can usually beat beginners. Occasionally a better fencer will have an off day and I'm learning to take advantage. But that's about it. And my age is against me.

Still, there are fencers it is a pleasure to watch and fight. I like fencers who evidently enjoy the bout. Every so often I'll fence someone who is skilled at fencing but doesn't seem to enjoy it - or whose only interest is how many points he (it's usually a he) can score. I understand fencing to win. Even I want to win. But I can't understand people for whom their own progess on a score board is their only pleasure.

I fence because I love it and I enjoy people who share my delight in swordplay and the fun of it all. They often fell in love with fencing through watching the old, swashbuckling movies and enjoying the swordplay. Some even read forgotten authors like Stanley J. Weyman.

Happy fencers come alive with sword in hand. Their eyes glow and they laugh with pleasure at good hits or amusing errors. While TV audiences thrill to Strictly Come Dancing, I just know that Strictly Come Fencing would be ten times as much fun - so long as the fencers enjoyed it. (But there isn't going to be much fencing on TV. It sounds as thought British fencing has just lost all its support in the run up to the 2012 Olympics.)

Some fencers win through strength as well as speed. The Historian (who the chef calls, approvingly, the Curmudgeon) is like that. Lately he's been suffering from epeeist's elbow (as tennis elbow has been renamed) so he can't take control of my blade so convincingly. The Doc is neat and subtle. He's a great admirer of neat hands and deft parries.

One of the newer fencers is skilled in both. At the club championship I found myself in the same poule as her and another young fencer. She was the nervous one, worried that she would make a fool of herself, so I reassured her, telling her she could look for hits one at a time and not worry about the outcome of the bout. She didn't tell me she was a left-hander and I didn't realise, until I saw her fence, that she was a quick learner with a good eye and neat hands. She won her first bout, against another intermnediate, 5-0 and began to relax. I managed three hits to her five. Then she beat her coach 5-1 and her poule fight against the club's best sabreuse ended with a 4-3 to the sabreuse, thanks to a hit just before the call of "time." She was beaten easily by the best fencer in the poule but went into the D.E. ranked eighth out of eighteen - quite a feat for a 16-year-old who started fencing only last year. As for me, I was knocked out easily by one of the club's best fencers (I think the score was 15-1) and finished fourteenth overall - the highest I've ever finished. (Thank you, newish fencers, for joining in - you'll all be beating me this time next year.)

I think I am improving a little but I didn't do well in the epee poules. Fortunately the D.E. saw me fencing a veteran epeeist (who prefers sabre and rarely fences epee on her visit). She's a few years older than me but not easy competition - she fences internationally as a veteran and sometimes brings home medals. I was pleased that the final score - in her favour - was 15-10. I enjoyed the bout.

Last night was devoted to sabre (I know that fleches aren't allowed in sabre any more, but couldn't resist the picture.) A visiting team took on some of our sabreurs in a team competition. Our club was victorious - we have a number of excellent sabreurs - but it looked like a good match. There weren't many epeeists but we took turns on a spare piste, pausing from time to time to watch the excitement.

When the match was over, members of the visiting team joined in casual fencing. It was good to see one stripping off his lame and taking an epee in hand. He approached us and asked if he could join in.

He was a young Frenchman, spending a few months in England between school and university. Without thinking, I replied to him in French and found myself scraping around for words - it's too long since I've had to speak French. He fenced us all, although only the Doc was a good match for him. Learning my age and relatively recent involvement in fencing, he set out to encourage me, letting me win subtly, encouraging me to attack and enjoy the bout, I don't always like it when I'm allowed to win but he was so encouraging and so polite that I was charmed. However, I didn't accept his invitation to fleche him.

Fencing in French felt special. The young fencer didn't resemble d'Artagnan and was far too youthful and enthusiastic for the cynical Gil de Berault but the language was right. Besides, as the Doc pointed out, the young Frenchman had excellent parries and ever such neat hands.

Note: I've been absent from the blogosphere for a while. I've been busy with work and other matters. I'll try to find time to blog more often.

advancing the arm

2008-11-09T08:03:00.003Z

Every so often at fencing, someone tells me something so obvious that no-one had said it before - and that I hadn't managed to work out for myself. It happened this Saturday.

I was being coached by a fencer whose chief interest lies in sabre - epee is definitely his third weapon. For all that, I was doing badly: failing to land easy hits, failing to attach the blade, hitting wide, moving clumsily. I was holding my weapon too tight and my arm ached. There was no point in crying so I laughed.

But the coach, who joined me in laughter, took his job seriously. After a little practice, first stationary, then moving backwards and forwards, in which my hitting was erratic, the coach pointed out something new. "You need to straighten your arm as you move backwards. Your sword should be the last thing to follow. It's not like foil or sabre. You have to keep defending from an attack."

It made immediate sense. I'd been retreating from failed attacks or withdrawing down the piste with a bent arm, opening myself up to rapid arm and wrist hits. I was startled that I hadn't realised this before.

The coach went on to explain that he'd been at a coaches' day for foil and sabre but had watched the epee session. He'd wondered why the footwork practice for all three weapons had been feet only - and then learnt that in epee the arm must move differently - not just outstretched in advancing but also stretching out defensively when moving backwards. I tried it out: step backwards letting the arm follow the front foot. I practised down the length of the small hall: step back, pull in the arm; step back, pull in the arm. It felt right but also tricky.

I continued practising with the coach. Everything I did fell apart: I was trying to do too much and thinking rather than acting. My sword arm was out of sync with my body and my failure to land hits became hilarious. Yet I knew I'd learned something important. We free-fenced for a while, then rested. I rang home to enquire after Joe the cat, who had made a determined attempt to accompany me to fencing by running beside my bike. Eventually he decided to take interest in a different kind of fencing and headed home by a new route, throuigh a neighbour's garden. He wasn't yet home safely.

There were only four of us at fencing: two coaches, me and a small, intermediate foilist marked by a keen determination to learn.
She was practising foil and I was drinking water when the lawyer entered, wearing a pair of her favourite stripey socks. I was delighted. The lawyer is a sabreuse but, being busy with a new job, she hadn't been fencing for a while. I'd suggested on Facebook that she might come along on Saturday but never expected she would. She looked at the new colour-scheme for the corridors: "Hmm: baby-poo and the Exorcist" was her mild comment on the two tones of paint. It seemed as accurate a summary as any, and reassured me that the bright shades in the main hall are cheerful, if extremely bright, by comparison.

I assumed the lawyer had arrived to practise sabre but, as I'd suggested she turn up, she started by fencing epee with me. I had to adjust to fencing a smaller woman - I was out of practice since the chef set off on her Parisien adventure. At the same time, I was beginning to remember to straighten my arm while moving backwards. It was starting to feel right.

The lawyer suggested we fence to 5 and I agreed, wondering, as usual, how badly I would lose. Then I scored the first hit, followed by a double. I began to think that, just possibly, I could win and my mood changed. The lawyer brought the score to 2-2. I pulled ahead to 3-2, then 4-2 - and she caught up. 4-4. The next hit would be the decider, we thought, then hit simultaneously. 5-5. We continued. With a burst of energy, I advanced and somehow, in a scramble of blades, managed the final hit. 6-5.

I should point out that I had numerous advantages. The lawyer was out of practice and generously fencing in her third weapon. She had also rushed from home without inserting her contact lenses. When her glasses steamed up, she removed them, so she was probably fencing a white blur. But something had changed for me: I was ready to take advantage and fence for victory. It felt good.

There was a pause. My son rang to announce that Joe had returned home. The small foilist continued to practise with increased determination when her mobile phone rang. It stopped as she reached it. She looked at it - "My ex-husband," she said, with a groan. "Excuse me."

"Tell him you're fighting," the lawyer suggested. We gathered round to listen.

"I was fighting," she said. "With a man." ... "I just stabbed him." .... "In the chest." (We were trying to stifle our laughter by then.) "With a FOIL." She listened some more as we laughed and then, as the call ended, turned to us. "He thought I'd really stabbed someone in a fight." We roared.

I began to fence the other coach as the lawyer practised sabre. There were problems with my grip and my stance and I was opening myself up to attacks. Every so often I was getting through but not often enough and my hits were clumsy. After a while, the coach suggested we fence to 5. He took the first point easily. Once I would have folded at that point but I didn't. Instead I took the next point with a clumsy but effective aggressive hit. He stayed ahead till 3-2. I began to hope. We reached 4-3. He countered my attack easily. 4-4. He'd mentioned that he found it hardest to fence me when I rushed him. I rushed him. There was a clash of blades, he went for me and missed. My hit landed. 5-4. I was the weaker fencer but I'd won ... again.

I didn't win great or important fights and I wasn't against the best epeeists in the club. However I've suddenly found that I have the will to win - something I lacked in the past - and it feels good.

At the end of the morning I fenced the small foilist, marvelling at the lightness of the weapon and trying to remember rules about right of way. She has developed an excellent circular parry - apparently she'd spent much of the morning getting it right.

And so I cycled home to see my son and Joe the cat. Joe had brought a dead bird with him - possibly a supplement to breakfast or a small, unappreciated gift.

Finding the floor

2008-11-06T11:50:00.006Z

"Come round on Wednesday," a friend said, expansively, at the end of Meeting. "We're burning Catholics."

"Sorry, I can't make it," I responded. "I'm stabbing people."

Perhaps it's as well there weren't any newcomers. People don't expect Quakers to talk like that. But the Friends who were present understood that they were being invited to a fireworks party with bonfire and that I couldn't go because I was going fencing. Some Quakers are a bit doubtful about my enthusiasm for fencing but fortunately they're a tolerant, accepting lot.

I forgot about the fireworks until I got home, when anxiety about Joe the cat hit me. Being a cat-owner keeps landing me with unanticipated responsibilities. Perhaps I couldn't go fencing at all, I thought. My son was heading to the display at his former primary school and I couldn't leave a fearful cat alone in the hosue.

Fortunately Joe deosn't scare easily. He curled up in the sink, which would be his favourite place if it weren't for the water. He likes the water and wants to play with it ... if only it weren't so wet.

I cycled through the damp, dark mist to the accompaniment of occasional pops and thuds. Tethering my bike, I headed to the hall - the big hall. It's been closed since July for work on the floor, leaving us to fence in the small hall, squash courts and corridors. But now the floor is fresh and shiny. The walls have been painted too. They are in rather unfortunate shades of bright green, which clash with the new mustard-green paintwork elsewhere. It's a shame the leisure centre didn't consult the fencers on suitable colours for a salle. We'd probably have gone with cream, black and gold. I expect the leisure centre found a helpful discount on green paint.

But the sound was the real surprise. I'd forgotten how delightful it is to hear the clash of blades and the cries and grunts of sabreurs. (I don't know why sabreurs make such a noise when fencing but they always do.) The beginners were still working at one end of the hall and there were three pistes next to the curtain that divides fencers from badminton-players. There must have been nearly fifty fencers there, some fencing steam and some waiting for a piste or space.

There were only three other epeeists and I fenced them all. My single victory over the dancer had given me new confidence and, when we fenced again, I managed far more hits than usual. We weren't scoring but I reckoned I managed three quarters as many hits as he did. More importantly, it felt like a proper bout and I reckoned that perhaps I'd have a chance of beating the dancer on another occasion, with a bit of luck.

I had a much harder time against the doc. His speed and light hits to my arm remained disconcerting. I managed a few hits but wondered, at times, if he was letting me hit him. However he often appears to open his arm to attack only to deceive my blade, so it was hard to tell. I also fenced the brunette again. She may be new to epee but she's an accurate left-hander with a long reach. At first I was as nonplussed as when I first fenced her. I would reach and try to angle but she would always get in first. It dawned on me that the only way I could hit her was by taking her blade. It didn't always work but, as I tried, I began to even up the contest.

I realise I've been slipping into my old habits of mirroring my opponents' techniques - or just repeating attacks in the hope they work. Fencing twice a weeks is giving me the confidence to work more on different strategies for different opponents.

But I'm also inspired by the return to the big hall. It offers opportunities for conversation too. I fell into conversation with a couple of sabreuses about the freedom fencing offers us. The club gives us an opportunity to be ourselves, we agreed - we don't have to modify our behaviour for other people. And we get to stab people too.

I heard the same from the mother of a young foilist. He's slightly autistic and needs clarity and repetition so that he can advance. His mother was full of praise for the club and the coaches - she's found an environment where her son can feel secure and be accepted as he is. Once again, I was glad to be a member of my fencing club.

All the same, I left early, just in case Joe the cat was worried. He wasn't.

ups, downs and in-betweens

2008-11-02T07:53:00.004Z

I've been too busy to blog. I even had to miss a Saturday morning fencing session for work. But apart from that, I've continued fencing.

It's hard to force myself out of bed on Saturday mornings, expecially when there's frost in the air. But Joe the cat responds to the ringing of the alarm, first by expecting cuddles and then by walking around the pillow in a display of restlessness. He has a point. On Saturdays I get up two hours later than on weekdays and squabbling birds outside the window remind Joe of breakfast. And he hasn't yet worked out how to open his own pouches of Whiskas.

For the first hour or so of Saturdays I move in slow motion. I contemplate tasks like unloading the dishwasher, then sit at the computer to read the papers while eating muesli and drinking coffee. Sometimes the chef comes on-line to ask if I'm fencing. I have to force myself to get untether the bike, mount it and wobble unsteadily towards the cycle track. I'm getting better at balancing the sword bag but I'm still unsteady as I clear the sleeping policemen on the drive to the leisure centre.

Attendance at Saturday fencing still hasn't made it into double figures. Too many people work, or stay in bed, or spend time with their families. And of course some fencers do other sports or roam the country in search of other fencers to attack. I hope Saturday fencing keeps going - I love it.

When I fence on a weekday evening I arrive tired and depart tired and bruised. There's a warm-up and some fencing but there's also a lot of waiting around. Some of the the waiting time is occupied with conversation but there are also uncomfortable moments in which I wonder whether I'm too old and unfit to continue fencing. That's when the tiredness is worst. Some evenings, when my co-ordination's worse than usual, the string of defeats gets to me.

My choices are simple: perservere or give up. And I'm not giving up just because my upper arm is black with bruises. I need to learn a better parry and a faster attack. Saturday mornings, with their mixture of coaching and free fencing, are ideal. And for two hours on Saturday mornings I get as much fencing as I wish. I may arrive tired but within a few minutes I'm flooded by energy and filled with enthusiasm. Cycling home, I find myself cheered and optimistic.

I don't know if it's doing me any good, but I've had a couple of surprising results. I fenced the club president last week, during an evening session when attendance was down. Epee is the president's third weapon and he's ten years older than me. But he's a left-hander, still fences in international veterans competitions in foil and sabre, and, when I started fencing, was the club's master-at-arms and indisputed champion of the one-hit epee. I'm usually pleased if I get one or two hits against his fifteen.

The president wasn't fencing as he would in a competition but his swift, light hits to the arm came out of nowhere, registering hits that I hardly felt. I began by trying to remember what coaches had advised, but that leads to slow, deliberate fencing - and pauses in which an opponent finds it easy to land a hit. I dispensed with analysis and focussed on watching for opportunities. And I began to see them. I never quite drew equal but I was in the bout. At about 12-8, I set myelf an ambition: a score in double figures. When I lost 15-10, it felt like a triumph. It almost compensated by the easy way in which the brunette had beaten me the week before.

I still wasn't expecting to win. Last Saturday I was beaten by all the other fencers, as usual, though one of the coaches encouraged me to be aggressive. He'd given me a good tip in the past: to avoid fancy fencing and go straight for the hit. I used it on him as he advanced and was delighted when he walked onto my blade.

The dancer arrived slightly late. He'd been away so was out of practice. I expected him to focus on sabre - his favourite weapon. He has the bounce and speed of a sabreur. But he began by drawing his epee from his case. When I watched him fence the coach I reckoned he'd be hard to hit with all that speed, energy and accuracy. "Good calves," I noticed, admiringly. Men who fence often have excellent legs - the kind admired by Georgette Heyer's heroines.

The dancer was hard to hit. The first time we fenced, he beat me by miles. Later in the morning, I suggested another bout. He agreed and attacked with his usual speed. But something was going wrong for him - he wasn't quite attaching his blade and was missing targets by a fraction, the way I often do. Suddenly we were level at 2-2. I began to attack. It wasn't pretty or elegant - more a matter of forcing my blade through towards his chest. I found myself a couple of points ahead. I kept waiting for him to pull back and overtake me. But a voice in my head said I must take advantage of the opportunity and, as I stayed on the attack, I saw him hesitate. I reached 12-3 and lost confidence. He took a point, and another. I realised that I needed to keep going, fast. The score was 12-5 to me but, if I hesitated, he could still catch up and overtake me. I needed to believe I could win and attack.

I attacked ... and attacked. I could see him surrendering though I was two points short of 15. I attacked again, forcing my way past his guard - but he hardly defended. I won, 15-5. He may have planned to give me a chance but, if he did, I took it. I didn't pound the air with my clenched fist when the bout finished but only because I thought the customary handshake more generous and polite.

Five minutes after the bout was over, the dancer challenged me again. This time the scores were reversed. But I had achieved my victory.

It may, of course, be my last win ever.

epeeists take on the dark side

2008-10-19T07:57:00.006+01:00

I was quite cheerful on the way to fencing. I'd spent the day working from home, so that the youthful dentist could repair my tooth. The time spent in the dentist's chair was a pleasant rest, partly because work has been so hectic lately but also because the young dentist was remarkably gentle and skilful. There wasn't even any drilling involved. She and her assistant were quick, efficient and explained calmly what they were doing. At the end I checked my bike and decided to explore the university campus.

The exploration took longer than I'd planned. I'd tethered my bike at the Arts Centre so that I could buy tickets for a forthcoming concert (Bach - totally irresistible) when the rain shifted from a grey drizzle to a crashing downpour. The obvious decision was to buy a double espresso and watch the swan and ducks on the lake - so I did.

At fencing my optimism fell away. I was short on energy - this always shows when we're asked to jog up and down on the spot as fast as we can, raising out knees high. I didn't last long.

A rather good sabreur, who looks about 15 but is apparently a university student, has decided to take a rest from sabre and spend a month doing epee. I'm not sure this should be allowed as fencers from the "dark side" (as sabre is known in our club) have a habit of being snooty about sabre.

He began by fencing the doc and I watched attentively, realising that I would probably have to fence him at some point in the evening. While the main hall at the leisure centre is still being re-floored, the lack of space has put off a number of fencers so I tend to take what opponents I can.

Specialists who suddenly switch weapons are always unnerving at first because they do unexpected things. This can be useful. For instance, a sabreur who tried to hit with the side of the blade won't score while foilists tends to waste time trying to establish right of way.

At first the student didn't seem to be making any mistakes. He had a good epee stance with an excellent en garde. His rapid attacks and ripostes meant that he was scoring point after point. Even though he bounced up and down in the characteristic way of sabreurs, I couldn't see any way of beating him. And then I noticed the way his foot beat the ground in an appel just before attacking. He was still way too fast for me but, towards the end, the doc was beginning to break through. Unfortunately it was a little late but, towards the end, the balance of play was with the doc.

After that experience, the doc was in extra good form. So was the Man man, though I'm beginning to feel slightly more confident about fencing him. I tried to put into practice some of the things I'd tried out on Saturday. Occasionally I managed to take the blade but mostly he was too fast for me.

By the time I fenced the student the optimism of Saturday had evaporated. Although I knew in theory how to fight the student, I simply wasn't fast enough. Towards the end, I managed a couple of hits. He was thrilled with the evening and suggested it showed that sabreurs could always beat epeeists. I suggested that next time we would go for their feet, because they wouldn't be expecting it. "We'd bounce out of the way," said the sabreuse. "I don't know," I said."One good, hard toe-hit with an epee - that's stop the bouncing."

The sabreurs looked at me in surprise. Perhaps it's because of my reputation for non-violence - or perhaps because they know how difficult toe-hits are and how rarely I achieve them."

"Not a good evening's fencing," I reflected. "Perhaps improvement takes more than one Saturday session."

"really cool"

2008-10-15T16:07:00.002+01:00

I'm becoming a twice-a-week fencer - or, at least, a three-times-a-fortnight fencer. I don't know how long it will last.

One of the coaches at the club has set up Saturday morning sessions at the local leisure centre. I shan't be able to go every week - sometimes I work, sometimes (too rarely) I visit my parents and sometimes there are simply other things to do. But this week I got on my bike at just after 9.00 in the morning, balanced by sword-bag against the basket and set off in daylight.

It was the first Saturday morning session and I was a bit nervous. I thought it might be all the best fencers in the club ... and me. I'd forgotten that there was a competition fairly near - and I think the bad weather had left people tired and longing for a lie-in. There were six of us - three women and three men. All the men were coaches (though only one was officially coaching for the session) and we'd all fenced one another before.

We had one electric piste. There was space for the rest of us to fence steam - and we could do all the fencing we wished. I started with epee and was soon getting helpful tips as well as much-needed practice. My movement and grip were better than usual and I found I was far more alert in the morning than at evening sessions.

I began with epee. Later I fenced foil against the gardener, a foilist who began when I did. Back in the days when I did foil, I frequently found myself fencing the gardener. We were so used to one another that we'd frequently make identical attacks at the same moment. She was more skilful than me, however, and her neat parries and counter-attacks would always bring her victory. It was comfortable to return to fencing her and to discover that her practice in foil and my experience in epee made the fight more varied. It was only a knock-around - we didn't have a ref or try to debate right of way but I think, if we had, she would have won.

Meanwhile the blonde, who a few weeks earlier had sworn undying loyalty to foil, decided that, after all, she'd like a go at sabre. As soon as she picked up the weapon, her eyes shone. She glowed from the thrill of her first lesson - evidently she's found her true weapon and it isn't foil.

I'm not going to be seduced - I know I'm an epeeist. But every so often I like to try something a bit different and it's nearly a year since I last tried sabre. So when a coach (the villain) asked if I would like a short lesson in any weapon, I decided to do some more beginner's sabre. It's certainly not for me, which is just as well since it takes more speed and money than I can manage. But occasional sessions are certainly fun and help me appreciate why the sabreurs enjoy it. Not that I'm deserting epee.

By the end of the session I felt fit and joyful. Cycling home seemed easy in the sudden sunlight.

The fencing was terrific - two hours with as much fencing as I wanted, in all three weapons. There were useful tips and I felt I was improving from the gentle coaching provided. I fenced a range of opponents.

But the highlight of the session came when I was fencing epee and glance towards the door. A group of Chinese students stood at the door of the hall, taking pictures of us on their mobile phones. I spoke to one who looked at my sword with admiration. "Fencing .... that's really cool," she said.

I followed enough of the Olympics to know that the standard of fencing in China is pretty high - much higher than in our club. But I like to fantasise about people in China receiving the photos on their mobile phones and saying, admiringly, "That's really cool."

It's probably just as well I didn't see the photos.

supporters

2008-10-11T12:14:00.003+01:00

Fencing doesn't usually attract a big audience. I'm not sure why because it's obviously exciting to watch a couple of people trying to stab one another. I bet we'd get an audience fast enough if we took to fencing in the streets as the pubs closed.
As things are, passers by at the leisure centre sometimes stand and watch - often with amazement and longing. They linger at the door or on the bridge above the halls, taking in the excitement of men, women and children attacking one another with swords. And then, sometimes, at club tournaments, a few partners, parents and children of fencers turn up to watch and cheer.

The only supporters I've ever had have been fellow fencers. My son would encourage me occasionally when he fenced. (He's thinking of returning but has outgrown all his kit - suddenly he's 6 feet tall.) And occasionally other fencers would cheer me on out of sympathy for the underdog.

Most of the encouragement I received came from fellow bloggers, often on the other side of the Atlantic, or friends who would try to remember to ask me how fencing had been. Friends are very good that way. A friend in France even phoned once to tell me about some fencing he'd seen on television, though he wasn't sure what weapon they'd been using. Sometimes I think my enthusiasm for fencing is quite a trial for my non-fencing friends.

In recent weeks I've been pleased to see a colleague bringing his son to the beginners' class. These days the beginners start before the rest of us so there's a chance to say hello and see how the son is progressing. It's early days but he's looking good and I hope he'll continue with the club. But when I arrived, I couldn't see them.

Attendance was pretty low for us. I don't know if the problem was the dark night or the flu and colds that are circulating. We're still in a cramped area as work continues on the floor of the big hall - we're not likely to be back there till mid-November. Perhaps other people felt the same reluctance as me when I got on my bike, wondering how long I could continue with fencing. My age is against me. My level of fitness is low and I don't get enough practice. I'm never going to be a good fencer. My ambition is to turn up and feel I did better than the week before. "Not enough," I thought. "Perhaps I'll give up next time my epee needs repair."

Warming up banished some of the gloom. I'm always surprised at the way exercise makes me feel better. Afterwards the fencers dispersed and I struggled into my plastron and jacket. There was only one other epeeist there - the Man man. He must have felt discouraged too as he's much better than me. But he smiled cheerfully and said we'd have to fence each other.

Just as I was connecting the wire from the box to my jacket - always tricky as the connecting loop is stiff and hard to open - I looked up at the gallery and saw my colleague with his son. They waved, smiled and gave me a thumbs up. "Oh dear," I thought as I put my mask on, "now they'll see how bad I am." But I was also warmed by the thought of watchers who were, indisputably, on my side. I reckoned I'd have to do my best.

Every time I looked up they were smiling, waving - even clapping gently. I lost more points than I won but it felt so good to have people on my side that I was making more of an effort - and winning more points than I expected. When, finally, my colleage and his son (still smiling) waved goodbye, I felt warmed by their support.

trepidation

2008-10-05T17:52:00.006+01:00

After last week's experience I was hesitant about returning to fencing.

It had been a difficult week and, gently as the dentist was, she confirmed that I had, as she put it "a fractured tooth". It's not bad, which is just as well as I have to wait two weeks for treatment.

Getting to the dentist was quite a trial. I decided to cycle, forgetting that my dentist resides close to the summit of a mountain peak in the vertiginous ranges of South Nottinghamshire - or, as the chef put it, on a slight incline. I found I couldn't keep going for the whole of the slope and got off to push my bike, uncomfortably aware of the young, energetic and, I assumed, contemptuous students swirling about me.

I got lost on my way to the surgery and found myself surrounded by the young. Even the dentist seemed no more than twelve, though I'll concede she may have been fifteen. She was very gentle and seemed pretty good at her job despite her lack of years.

At least cycling downhill was exciting - and I managed to avoid an over-enthusiastic articulated lorry as I swerved out onto the roundabout to take the quick, main route home.

Having faced the dentist, I shoud have had no qualms about fencing. But my jaw still ached and I didn't want another run of mask hits. For the first time, I was nervous about being hurt.

I've been bruised and even cut before and it hasn't worried me much. But those repeated blows to the mask unnerved me. The chef, communicating by i.m. from Paris, gave me advice: "You don't have to fence the youth," and "You could always do foil."

Wearily I pulled my jeans over my breeches, clambered onto my bike and cycled off into the night, slightly late. My swords clanged against the bicycle basket. I felt wimpish and stupid but my confidence returned as I gained speed in the cool air. By the time I'd chained my bike at the leisure centre I'd made a decision. I wouldn't fence the youth. And I'd consider doing foil.

I confessed my nervousness, with some embarrassment. The doc said it was like riding a bike - that, if you fell off, you must get on again at once. I saluted and, clumsily as usual, pulled on my mask.

I didn't have any good bouts at epee. However, I found I was moving better against the doc - not just attacking, which is what I usually do when I lack confidence, but trying to vary speed and tactics. I even got a few decent arm-hits. Later I fenced the Man man. He was, I assume, slowing down and giving me a chance, letting me get ahead and then overtaking me. I was grateful, I think. At least I took advantage of the chances so that he only beat me 15-12.

Things were slightly uneasy between me and the youth. He'd meant well, after all. I just didn't want to fence him. So when I found myself talking to one of the intermediate fencers - a young woman who started foil a year ago, I suggested a bout. We fenced a couple of points and then she was called for some coaching. Then the coach agreed to referee a bout between us.

I assumed I would lose. My opponent is younger and had been tough to fence when she tried epee. She's fierce and determined, using strength and speed. And it's a while since I've handled a foil. I did a quick mental check-list: remember to parry, straighten the arm fast, show you've established right of way. Then I picked up my foil, saluted, put on my mask and prepared to be beaten.

About five hits into the bout, I realised I could win. I'm not sure what it was - I think that the new tactics she'd learnt were making her pause, infinitesimally, before she put them into action. And once I was ahead she was cross with herself and uncertain.

The coach called encouragement and advice to her - then apologised that, as a ref, he shouldn't do it. But it seemed fine to me. I was the more experienced fencer and I was ahead.

I didn't want to be brutal or overly aggressive but I wanted to win. One hit I landed on her collar-bone hurt her. I paused and apologised. The coach pointed out that I was fencing, as usual, with my electric foil (the only one I have) while she had a practice foil with rubber button. I don't think she was badly hurt but she probably took a bruise. As an epeeist I expect 6-12 bruises a week but foilists aren't used to that.

The bout continued. I was fencing better than usual and she was fencing worse. I won 15-9.

Next week, my opponent won't pause when she uses new tactics, and I'm unlikely to fence so well. But it was nice to win a bout for a change.

"the way to a man's heart ..."

2008-09-27T09:58:00.008+01:00

One of the epeeists drew attention to last week's bruises. I don't know why. They weren't particularly bad - not bad enough to bother with arnica. But three greeny-yellow patches were visible on my right arm, before I donned plastron and jacket.

My first bout, against the doc, was fine. He hasn't been for a while and his hits were a little harder than usual but he remains a precise fencer who places his epee exactly. I enjoyed fencing him. It was just a kock-about - no-one was scoring. Then, after a pause for conversation with the women fencers, the youth suggested we fence.

I've mentioned before that the youth likes hits to the mask - and these don't always work. If you're fencing epee and go for mask hits, you miss all the target areas on hand, wrist and arm. This gives your opponent, even when it's someone as slow as me, a chance to get some hits as soon as the mask-hitter's arm comes within reach, The disadvantage is that, once the mask-hit is launched, it will probably land, even if it is too late to score.

The youth went for mask-hit after mask-hit. At first I was scoring some hits - some mine alone and some doubles. But we weren't fencing a bout with a cut-off point so it didn't stop. Had we fenced to 15, I wouldn't have had to take more than 29 mask-hits, but it went beyond that. The youth's mask-hits are hard and my head was ringing and beginning to ache. I began to wonder how long I could go on.

It became a question of endurance rather than trying to land a hit. Eventually I decided I would take five more mask-hits and then, if he didn't change target, I would stop. I was thinking of the kind of damage boxers suffer. I counted down, "5, 4, 3, 2, 1 (bash, bash, bash, bash, bash)." I took off my mask and held out my hand. "Why the mask hits?" I asked. (I think I may have used more expressive language.) "I was avoiding your arm," he responded and implied I had made a fuss about being bruised. But I never make a fuss about being bruised - bruises simply became a subject for discussion, as they often are among women fencers.

I mentioned to another fencer that I reckoned I'd taken about fifty hits to the mask. He dismissed it immediately saying he would have stopped fencing long before that. But I still reckon fifty is a modest estimate.

I had a headache for the rest of the evening.

I fenced the Man man, pretty badly, and then the intermediate woman who has seen the joy of epee. That was a gentle bout which, predictably, I won but not that well.

Then, as I was standing with the other woman, a coach caught me by the waist from behind and told me to practise my lunges. It's true I haven't been lunging properly. He insisted I push off my left foot. I tried to explain about the policeman's foot - and that my heel would hurt in the morning. He didn't pay much attention and I didn't want to seem feeble. I tried to lunge. I didn't succeed very well. It was plainly time to remove my fencing kit and cycle home.

As we stripped off jackets and plastrons, I caught sight of the T-shirt worn by my female opponent. Its slogan fitted my mood perfectly. "FENCING," it said, in large letters, and, below that, "The way to a man's heart is through his ribcage."

The following morning I tottered out of bed. I couldn't put weight on my left heel. I still had a headache. A little later, I discovered I'd chipped a tooth. It may not have been caused by the mask-hits. I'm not looking forward to the dentist.

women with swords

2008-09-20T15:26:00.006+01:00

I suppose it's the same in most sports - women are in the minority.

There are practical reasons for this. Women often have to limit sporting activities during pregnancy and when children are young. That gap makes it hard for many women to continue with sports. There are exceptions of course. I remember feeling nervous when watching my then-pregnant friend Anna fly from trapeze to trapeze or fall, as planned, to the net at her regular class. She assured me she would give up when the safety harness stopped fitting and that the circus's experienced trapeze artists knew what was safe. Certainly her pregnancy went well - perhaps trapeze classes are safer than being hit by a sword.

Women also tend to have pressures that don't affect men. They are usually the ones who do most childcare - and that's even the case in two-parent families when both parents are working. That limits the time parents can spend on sport. I was able to take up fencing because my son was already fencing - and the rules said an adult had to be present.

Women are usually poorer than men, which means that they have less money to spend on sport. I'm lucky - my fencing club has low fees and gave me plenty of time to acquire my epee kit. I'm also better off than most women. For many, sporting activity is an impossible dream.

As a result, sports clubs tend to be dominated by men - often in the nicest possible way. Our fencing club now has women on the committee - women who have brought in new, practical ideas and seen the club grow in strength as a result. But all the coaches and most of the members are still male - women and girls probably make up a fifth to a quarter of each beginners' class and are about the same proportion of regular attenders.

Now that the chef has settled in Paris, I'm once again the only woman regularly fencing epee. I wish I were better at it - there's something sad about being the only woman epeeist and the weakest fencer. Years ago, my idea of joining a chess club came to nothing when I discovered I would be the only woman member - it would have been fine had I been a great chess player but I didn't reckon my skill sufficient to represent my gender in this way. Fortunately the skills of women at sabre and foil - combined with my age and late start in sport - means that I'm never the token woman. I'm just a woman in her 50s who enjoys epee without being good at it. Everyone knows that there are brilliant women epeeists - it just happens that I'm not one of them.

Most of the women who fence - probably all the women who fence - are fitter than me when they begin and have experience of other sports. Most of them are younger and seem intimidatingly beautiful and confident. I still try to persuade them to take up epee because it's a lovely weapons, because it's fun, because (just occasionally) it's like being one of the Three Musketeers, and because I like to fence women as well as men.

We're still crammed into the small hall (the floor in the big hall may be ready for us in mid-November) and using squash courts for classes. At least this means conversation is easy and I finally found myself talking to two women who are in the intermediate class for foil. Of course, I tried to persuade them of the superior merits of epee. They would plainly add glamour to the weapon - one is a tall brunette and the other a petite blonde who wears huge piratical hooped earrings - even when fencing. Both have long curling hair - rather like the Three Musketeers.

Perhaps I shoud learn how to curl my hair - but I think I'm a little old for that look. I'll stick with the hair-was-in-a-bun-but-is-falling-down-because-of-the-mask look.

They were hesitant about epee, asking about technique and - inevitably - about bruises. I recommended arnica tablets which, to my surprise, work well for me. "Why don't you have a go?" I asked, hoping that the buzz of fencing would seduce them to the best of weapons.

Other epeeists quickly took an interest - most men at our club like fencing women. I fenced each of them steam - slowly (not much change there), giving them a chance to feel what it was like. I stood with my arm lowered so that they could try wrist, arm and shoulder hits. Eventually body-wires and spare electric epees were produced so that the women could fence one another to 15 points.

One liked it - the other was not quite sure. That's not a bad result. I just hope the bruises don't put them off.

the villain laughed ....

2008-09-13T10:18:00.004+01:00

I left work as early as I could to be sure of reaching fencing on time. But all the trains were halted and, when they started running again, the company chose to ignore the anxious passengers for my small, local station. Every other possible destination was served but, with we had to wait an hour and a half. There was a brief, hopeful interlude inwhich we were told to get on a train. We settled in our seats but it turned out that the interlude had been provided merely for entertainment and exercise. After five minutes of sitting comfortably and waiting for the train to move, we were told to get off again because it had been cancelled.

I eventually arrived home, hungry and thirsty, less than an hour before fencing was due to start. I urged the teenagers to feed themselves, grabbed a pasty and then sat down for what was meant to be a minute or two. The minutes passed.

Suddenly I noticed the clock. I would have to cycle - I had no choice. The only choice I had was what to wear. I could cycle in white breeches and glow in the dark or attempt to wear jeans over my breeches. I've never tried to wear jeans over breeches before - I wasn't convinced they would fit. To my surprise, they did although the combination felt bulky and awkward. I clambered onto my bike, remembeing how to balance the sword bag under the basket, regretting that the chef, en route for Paris, wouldn't be there to laugh at my attempts to dismount.

I sped along and managed to get off the bike with relative ease, only to struggle with the lock at the leisure centre. I usually chain my bike to a metal column. This involves manipulating a coiled bicycle lock that behaves like a recalcitrant snake. The coil was particularly bad-tempered and it took several minutes of struggle to wind the plastic-coated wire through the back wheel of my bike and round the column so that I could - at the tenth attempt - snap the device shut.

I missed footwork practice.

We're still in the small hall with classes taking place in a couple of squash courts. The beginners' class was over by the time I arrived. I caught sight of a work-colleague with his new-to-fencing nephew on the balcony and went up to say hello. It's the first time anyone from work has seen me in fencing kit but this didn't strike me till later. I stayed chatting - and showing off my epee - until two epeeists from the hall below waved to me to come and fence.

Fortunately my colleague had left before my first bout began. As usual, I lacked the brilliance I would like but was glad to be moving much more easily than earlier in the year. I seem to be over the fall from the loft and my heel barely hurts now. All I have to do is gain the speed and quick reactions of someone half my age, and increase precision and accuracy. I know it won't happen but perhaps I can get a little better, especially since epee classes will begin in a few weeks. Unfortunately some of my regular opponents will also receive coaching.

The lack of space makes it hard to get as much fencing as I would wish, and some fencers still haven't returned from holiday. I'm continuing my practice at corridor-fencing which is excellent at encouraging precise bladework. I haven't attempted corridor epee yet - there's an obvious risk to the wall, ceiling or blade. The foil blade is safer because lighter and more flexible but I'm not good at aiming for the torso, let alone establishing right of way.

Club-members are divided on corridor-fencing. Some worry about the health and safety implications - suppose we stabbed a squash player or someone leaving the toilets. We haven't yet. Occasionally non-fencers seem slightly surprised when they chance on a duel but, so far. we've always stopped to let them by. (We tend to giggle as we realise how we must look, which probably spoils the effect.)

I encouraged more people to use the corridor and fenced two opponents there myself. The second was the senior coach. Away from the piste he's a kindly individual who offers lifts and listens to Bach. On the piste he's bloodthirsty with a tendency to laugh when oppponents miss - plainly the villain in any swashbuckling film.

I know what the ending should be. I should fence backwards up a spiral staircase. There should be a moment when I spin the sword from my opponent's grasp. Then I should pause and, with sublime generosity, allow him to pick it up. He attempts by a trick to take advantage of my better nature and that's when I close in for the kill, possibly by swinging from a chandelier.

It didn't happen quite like that. My opponent laughed as he parried, tricked me with feints and leapt back from my blade. I don't even have my usual excuse for failure - he's ten years older than me. I managed to land a couple of hits on the bib of his mask which he generously conceded had, thanks to new fencing rules, been a valid target since 1st September.

Then I struggled back into my jeans only to realise, as I cycled back, that I'd forgotten to turn my bike lights on. It's very hard to reach the rear light of a bicycle when loaded with three swords and a back-pack. But I realised that, having covered my white breeches with dark blue jeans, I was almost invisible. And the streetlights along the half-mile driveway to the leisure centre were all out - perhaps a side-effect of the flooded water-meadows on either side or perhaps an attempt to save the planet.

I twisted uncomfortably on the saddle and somehow managed to turn on the rear light. Life was much easier when the chef was there to help me.

corridor fencing

2008-09-06T21:30:00.009+01:00

My breeches seemed to have shrunk slightly in the past twenty-four hours. It's strange that dinner with the chef should have that effect. It seemed possible they would shrink further if exposed to the rain, which was bucketing down. I decided to remain dry and conserve my energy for fencing. I booked a cab.

Something bad has happened to the floor of the main hall at the leisure centre. No-one is allowed into the hall but, crossing the bridge to the small hall allotted us, I could see an expanse of fractured concrete through gaps despite curtains of plastic sheeting obscuring the view. No-one knows when we shall get our floor back.

For the moment we have two rooms: the small hall often dedicated to kick-boxing and a squash court. There wasn't space for a full-length piste and we gazed around anxiously. The main hall was further cluttered with large blue mattresses. A large rubbish bin stood in the middle of the floor, collecting drips from a leak in the ceiling. I tried to look on the bright side. The bin could be part of a fencing fantasy. It would become a barrel of wine, due to be pierced by a sword or pistol-shot in the course of a lengthy fight. The effect is included in the d'Artagnan street - and rooftop - theatre at Parc Asterix. As wine gushes from the barrel, d'Artagnan tastes it and comments, mid-fight, and comments, "mauvais cru" ("lousy vintage").

We stood in a circle for warm-up and footwork practice saw us in two rows. At least the weather meant attendance was down - somewhere between twenty and thirty, I think. We kitted up and established four pistes in the hall: two electric and two steam.

As the intermediates headed to the squash court for a lesson, I found myself gazing down the corridor towards the changing rooms and further squash courts. "It looks like a piste to me," I found myself saying. "We could fence there."

One of the intermediates - a tall, dark girl who looks as though she should learn epee - looked up and her eyes gleamed with understanding. Quickly we agreed to to fence foil in the corridor once her class was over. I returned to the small hall. Only two other epeeists were looking for a bout: the youth and the student. They had arranged to start by fencing each other. For some time I watched.

Fencers were careful not to monopolise the pistes and bouts were fast and short. All the same, I did quite a lot of watching before I picked up my sword to fence the youth. He's better than me and hits hard - I've numerous purple circles on my right thigh to prove this.

For some reason he was aiming at my head. He caught the mask with blows that made my teeth chatter and once hit the centre of my forehead so forcefully that I felt the blow there, even though my forehead's well-protected by the mask and no blow can actually land on my face. The hits to my head did him no good. While he scored many more hits than I did, I tended to catch him on the wrist or forearm as he advanced to attack my mask. But his hits landed all the same.

Later I fenced the student, who had remarked that he was very out of practice. For a while I thought I wasn't going to score a single hit. But in the end I landed a few blows. I comforted myself with the thought that he was young enough to be my son. Then I re-assessed. He's young enough to be my grandson.

Eventually the moment for corridor-fencing arrived and I can't praise the practice enough. It was like being in a movie. We went back and forth between the walls and the only thing we could focus on was hitting one another.

When my opponent had to leave, I tried again, against one of the coaches. He'd done dungeon fighting - a real-life fantasy gameplay - and loved it at once. The focus of the bout is sharpened, you need to keep your blade under control and your footwork precise while watching your opponent. All are things you should do in ordinary fencing, but corridor fencing is far more intense. - It feels both real and like freeing fantasy prisoners from a castle dungeon

I managed to ignore the painted walls, the radiators and the safety signs. Stone would have been better.

"Perhaps we could try the staircase," the coach suggested, and then, hopefully, "the leisure centre might agree .. as a one-off, for a promotional video."

Perhaps they'll even install a chandelier.

culinary genius

2008-09-06T00:04:00.006+01:00

It might have been rude to take pictures of every course at a dinner party, so I didn't. But this picture, of a pavlova made by the chef for a party this summer, gives some idea of her culinary genius.

The chef greeted me with an offer of cocktails - I chose one with elderflowers and gin - then took me to see her bathroom, which has recently been renovated. "Probably the best bathroom in the world," I agreed and offered my compliments to the grouter.

The chef's house was strangely bare of books, since she's been packing, but filled with wonderful odours. I will give you the menu so that your mouth can water as mine did.

We began with rosemary soup. I've never experienced this before but I've learnt that it's a traditional recipe and that the first stage involves steeping fresh rosemary in milk. Later potatoes and onions are used. It's a wonderful flavour and the soup was garnished with more sprigs of rosemary and served with warm, fresh bread. We started on the wine too - a Pinot Gris from Alsace.

The main course was a frittata, with cheese and cauliflower. The chef always has spare egg whites, possibly because she likes to separate eggs in her spare time. She included some of these so that the frittata was remarkably light. She served it with a green salad.

The dessert was home-made creme brulee with a crispy top (formed with the aid of a blow-torch) and a raspberry base - a coulis, perhaps. It was wonderful.

We rounded off the meal with fresh coffee - black and strong - accompanied by brandy. Conversation was easy - perhaps I talked too much. We had more brandy ... and more. It was pleasantly smooth. Then, suddenly, I glanced at my watch and found to was 10 to 1. I decided I'd better go home.

The pavement swayed in a disconcerting manner and my feet took a slightly curving route over the paving stones. The teenagers were waiting for me. "What sort of time do you call this?" they asked, and, "Mum, have you been drinking?"

I was too abashed to complain that they were up late. I began to hope that the pleasant evening wouldn't hamper my ability at fencing the following night .... or the fit of my breeches.

breathe in!

2008-09-03T16:14:00.002+01:00

It's been a long summer without fencing.

I planned to fence. Then there was something wrong with the floor in the leisure centre, which made August fencing impossible. The chef and I discussed meeting in a garden for a bout or two - not the chef's own garden, of course, because she's too self-conscious, but a garden she could borrow when friends were away. But it rained a lot and the dates didn't work out.

As the return to fencing approached, I was filled with trepidation. I'd meant to take exercise in the summer - and I had climbed over boats and walked on beaches and through cities. I'd even swum in the sea for quite some time - but it wasn't a vigorous swim and included quite a lot of floating. And the holiday, like most holidays, had included good food and alcohol.

Worrying about fitness was bad enough. I had to face an even more serious question. Could I still fit into my breeches?

I worried about it for days. Finally, the day before fencing, I knew I had to find out. It wasn't the easiest fit in the world but not too bad. I tried a small lunge. They didn't split. They felt snug and comfortable. I was suddenly confident about fencing.

So I took off my breeches and put on my skirt, grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and set out for dinner. The chef, preparing for her move to France, had invited me to a feast.

It's not the same

2008-08-13T19:30:00.008+01:00

It must be at least four weeks since I fenced. The floor at the leisure centre had better be good when it's repaired because I'm going to be sadly out of practice. The chef did suggest fencing in a garden but the dates and the weather didn't work out.

I went to Southsea and Portsmouth, where I briefly contemplated other weapons. I wasn't tempted by the cannon but had to admit that these shiny pistols were beautiful. Friends of mine were involved in antique pistol shooting, which seemed to involve such arcane crafts as making bullets (in a saucepan on the stove!) and I can see that it requires skill and a sense of history. I'm told it's chancy too - with early guns one of the biggest dangers was that the gun would explode in its owner's hand.

The guns were on board HMS Warrior, an iron-hulled battleship which seemed spacious compared with its older neighbour, the Victory. But rows of guns and canonballs - as well as a few sabres - recalled its purpose. The ships at Portsmouth are made to help people kill efficiently at sea - some of the glamour of the Mary Rose, which sank off Southsea in sight of Henry VIII, is lost at the thought of those 200 archers and the effect they would have in warfare. In the Mary Rose museum I got to hold one of the heavy stone balls used in early cannon and I smelt the tar - its odour was still strong - on an original timber. We were allowed to pick up pikes and try on helmets but there was no opportunity for swordplay.

War in Southsea and Portsmouth is serious. There are two tanks on the seafront and a huge anti-aircraft gun. I thought of the smashed houses and lives and the delicate bombers hurtling down in flames with their human cargo. It seemed a long way from the skill of fencing though I know there's skill involved in warfare too - so much training to aimed at death and conquest.

Still, I'm sure the exercise of scrambling over ships - and chasing after three teenagers - was good for me. And later I had my afternoon of swimming in the sea from a crowded English beach on the Isle of Wight. I drifted and swam gently as far out as I could - sometimes the tips of my toes touched sand and sometimes I was too far out. The water was cold and my skin tasted of salt for at least a day. The only sorrow was my return to land. I hate reaching that point where lightness and grace depart. At the end of each swim comes the moment when my feet feel the sand as grit and my body drags in the unaccustomed air.

My heel ached, and sometimes my legs ached from the exercise, which I thought was probably a good thing - though it may simply indicate how little exercise I've taken.

On my last day away, the Olympics began. I haven't caught any fencing - it's barely covered by the British press who don't seem interested in a sport where Britain lacks good medal chances. I picked up some clips on the BBC website. There's a small space dedicated to Olympic fencing, but the authors are mainly describing it as a British disaster, although Richard Kruse's 15-14 loss to the number 1 seed (who had priority against him, forcing Kruse to attack) seemed pretty good to me. I've been limited to the video replays. Unfortunately the commentary I've heard has been lamentable. There's little explanation of the points, no use of video replay and commentators even refer to the time periods as "rounds" as though they were watching a boxing match. I've seen fencing on Eurosport with excellent and clear commentary, explaining the bouts in a way which would appeal to non-fencers as well. But so far as I can tell, the BBC commentators have never fenced - nor taken the trouble to learn how fencing is described and judged. It's such a shame that a sport that works so brilliantly on TV with proper commentary has been left to people who seem confused by the rules and terminology.

It's not all difficult - it's easy enough to use terms like "attack", "parry", "counter-attack" and "lunge" without confusing an audience. And it might help to explain the different rules for each weapons and even - where relevant - rules about "right of way". After all, it's much simpler than offside in football.

The picture shows the great Italian foilist Maria Valentina Vezzali (facing) fencing fellow Italian Margherita Granbassi in the semi-finals. Vezzali won that match and went on to take her third consecutive Olympic gold medal.

fencing in Paris

2008-07-30T10:46:00.006+01:00

I was walking by the Seine when I saw them - children in masks and tabards practising l'escrime. I think it was a first attempt for them. The instructors explained the rules, made sure the kits fitted, furnished the children with soft swords and set them off.

Worried that my interest would be misinterpreted, I explained that I fenced at home and added, wistfully, that I wished I could join in. The instructor sympathised and said that, if I found another adult, I too could fence.

It would have been good to fence in Paris by the Seine, even with a play-sword, but I was walking alone and wasn't sure of the etiquette for challenging a stranger to a duel. (I also feared I might do rather badly.) So after watching some more, I headed off, walking almost the full length of Paris Plage - the summer beach that closes a main road in Paris so that Parisiens can exercise or bask in the sun.

It was my second day in Paris. The night before I'd visited the Comedie Francaise to see their production of Cyrano de Bergerac. I'd been rereading the play in French since I boarded the Eurostar and was glad I'd done so - I can read French fairly easily but was out of practice at dealing with the speed of the spoken language.

I've seen Cyrano on stage before, notably with Derek Jacobi and Sinead Cusack, as well as seeing the film with Gerard Depardieu. But this production was different. The British productions I've seen have worked to establish the 17th century detail and have tried to create an entirely realistic setting, even though the play is - I hate to admit it - not entirely plausible and the characters speak in verse. I'd expected something similar at the Comedie Francaise, which used to have a reputation as a guardian of tradition - or, to put it another way, as a producer of staidly conventional productions. The photos outside warned me to expect something different. Some of the characters seemed to be wearing top hats and surely Roxane was flying ...

Of course, the French have a greater familiarity with Cyrano and other French classics than the British do and I imagine the play is performed much more frequently in France. Directors and companies are bound to discover new ways of presenting it, just as British (and other) directors explore Shakespeare in different ways. At first it was strange to see Cyrano at the theatre encountering 19th century gentlemen, but it connected the play to the time of its author, Edmond Rostand. The production explored layers in the play, showing stage pictures which presented the emotion of the characters, so that Roxane really did fly when listening to Cyrano's words on her balcony. The buildings retreated and she hovered ecstatically in mid-air. (Later she flew in a more familiar sense, arriving at the siege with Ragueneau in a primitive flying machine.)

There's one scene in Cyrano which I've never really enjoyed before - the scene in which Cyrano converses with de Guiche about the moon so as to delay him while Roxane marries Christian. But in this production, Michel Vuillermoz as Cyrano was enthralling in his comic techniques, which seemed to draw on traditions going back to commedia dell'arte. The production as a whole made more of the comic elements than I expected. It was moving too - and for the first time I really felt for Christian, in love with Roxane and frustrated by his lack of eloquence.

While in most production Cyrano has been handsome apart from his long nose, at the Comedie Francaise, the contrast between Cyrano and Francoise Gillard's Roxane was so clear that his love for her really did seem hopeless from the start. The miracle was her final realisation that she had loved Cyrano for his language.

But even so, as he dies, Cyrano sees himself only as what he lacks - the genius of Molière and the beauty of Christian: "Molière a du génie et Christian était beau!" In his final line, Cyrano links himself only to the white plume of the Gascony cadets - his panache.

I'd have liked more on-stage fencing, of course, but that's almost always the case. It was a wonderful evening and I'll try to write more about it elsewhere, when I have time.

missing

2008-07-20T21:06:00.005+01:00

My blade glided harmlessly past my opponent's forearm towards his heart. I accelerated forward - and missed. I didn't just miss his heart. I missed his chest altogether. My blade slid under his arm and stabbed the air, as if I were taking part in a peculiarly incompetent stage fight. Then he hit me without difficulty.

Luckily the evening wasn't all as bad as that, though I was still exhausted from the previous week at work. The chef said she was tired too and we took a break when the coach taking footwork practice kept us in an exhausting routine so step, lunge, reprise faster, step forward, step back, lunge, reprise faster, step back. My calves and thighs hurt after only three or four sequences. I'm still not as fit as I was before succumbing to policeman's foot and then falling from the loft.

I don't think the chef can have been all that tired because I managed only a few hits against her. She was so much faster and more accurate than me that I felt compelled to mention that I had, at least, beaten her at Scrabulous. (It doesn't happen often - I won one of three games we were playing simultaneously and she won the other two. )

The chef's lunge gets longer every week. I suspect mine has a tendency to look more like an energetic shuffle. The chef is probably helped by her energetic cycling and regular visits to the gym. She's taken up running too, which seems to involve an obstacle course of geese, gooseherds and children's tricycles as well as congratulatory admirers. She duggested I join her but it doesn't seem a very good idea. Apart from continuing pain in my heel, I'm pathetically slow. She'd probably do at least two circuits to my one - if I managed one.

I did, however, make a discovery. The chef is good at defending against hits from above, because she's one of the smaller fencers in the club. While it seems obvious that, as the taller fencer, I should be able to hit her from above, I have more success hitting from below her arm. My best hits were to her thigh as she advanced or began to lunge. (It was probably a mistake to tell her this after we had fenced.)

I managed more hits against my second opponent of the evening - a better and taller fencer. There were disasters, like missing his chest, but I also managed a decent number of arm hits. I thought he was probably letting me hit him but the chef reckoned he was tired. That made me feel better.

After two opponents the tiredness was the real victor of the evening. I wanted to leave while I could still cycle home without swerving or falling off. The chef and I left together. and I got home safely, although I did swerve from time to time. Unfortunately my plans for next week mean I'll miss the one-hit epee (again). I was sorry to realise that but pleased to find that August fencing was suggested. As I said goodbye and "see you in a fortnight," I looked forward to more chances of practice - I'm beginning to feel almost fit. Alas! - I heard a day later that the floor of the hall is to be replaced. It will be out of use for some weeks. That probably means no fencing till September.

I'll try to work on lunges, speed and accuracy - on my own. It doesn't feel quite right. Fencing isn't the same without the immediate inducement of stabbing somebody.

missing fencing and watching the nationals

2008-07-17T18:34:00.005+01:00

I was looking forward to fencing. It was a tough day at work so I was happy to anticipate the joy of stabbing someone. Not the chef, as she was staying away, but surely someone would give me the opportunity of a few hits.

But the computer I'd borrowed had different ideas. Perhaps it feared I was neglecting it. Or perhaps it was cross about overwork - I'd been typing frantically on the train. I got into work, plugged in my laptop, switched it on, and ... nothing.

I'd copied most of the paper I was writing elsewhere but the media files were another matter. I begged the technicians for help. Although busy, they found time to look at the computer and eventually managed to copy most of the files. It was the media files that were missing.

One of the technicians stayed late to help. I was ever so grateful but my hand itched to hold my epee. I could go late, I thought, as the technician finally searched in vain for the missing files. "Leave it with me," he said at last. "I'll do it tonight or in the morning."

I'd planned to work on the paper that day and was beginning to wonder how much I could do after fencing. Work and anxiety had added to my tiredness. Still, I promised myself, I could manage an hour ... just a couple of bouts.

As I struggled out of the building with books and bags, I realised how heavy the rain was. I was glad I'd put on my summer mac ... until the rain started to leak through before I'd left the courtyard. After ten minutes I was soaked to the skin, apart from my feet. I was so soaked I didn't notice the inches-deep puddle.

Before I reached the station, I knew I wasn't going to fence. Twenty-five minutes in a train wearing wet clothes was no preparation for anything but a hot bath and a good meal. Besides, I would work on my paper.

Gloomily, after supper, I sat down to write more, only to discover I'd left the main book I needed in my office. It wasn't a good day.

Despite the setbacks, the paper happened. I wondered what to do when it was over, especially as my son was staying with friends for the weekend. I didn't wonder for long. Friends from my fencing club were competing in the nationals so I decided to take the train to Sheffield to support them.

It was easy enough to find my way from the station to the tram and from there to the English Institute of Sport. And as soon as I arrived I saw a club member whose wife was fencing in the women's sabre competition. He gave me directions, which I promptly forgot at the sight of the huge main hall with its indoor athletics tracks set out with more than thirty pistes. I watched the epeeists for a while, trying to see Jon Willis, but was unlucky. Still, I marvelled at the skill and speed, wishing I could be half as good.

Eventually I found my way to the second hall, where the sabreurs were camping. Their poules didn't begin till the afternoon but they had brought drinks and the kind of picnics that help fencers maintain their energy levels. I can't remember how many pistes there were in all - at least 54 in the glossy new building. Our leisure centre is pretty good but this was in another league. But there were the usual bags of fencing kit left at the edge of the arena and fencers in kit called up to referee. And while I welcomed the friendliness of the cafe staff and the cheapness of the food - I could afford lunch - the food itself was sadly tasteless. Perhaps my standards have risen since I started using an organic delivery scheme.

The fortunes of our club fencers varied. It was a shame to meet our best foilist - still in his mid-teens - and hear that his usual good form had deserted him after his first two poule bouts. He didn't make the cut. The sabreurs did better and I watched one woman, who started fencing when I did, gradually improve through her poule to win her final bout 5-0.

I would have liked to stay for the sabre Direct Eliminations but I felt tiredness steal up on me again. I drifted to the main hall and watched more epee. Then I headed back for the tram, train and home.

Later I heard that many of our club sabreurs had done well and they'd had a great day.

Two memories stay with me. There was an epeeist - I didn't see his name - swearing at himself and trying to force himself to win through anger. It didn't work. After he lost his temper with himself, he didn't score another hit. It was so unlike the bout on a neighbouring piste where a young epeeist stayed calm and defended well, making it hard for his stronger, more experienced opponent to gain points. The young epeeist lost too but he stayed calm and competed well, right till the end, and his bout was a pleasure to watch.

The other memory was to do with breeches. I couldn't stop myself from asking a young sabreuse, "Where did you get your breeches?" "Leon Paul," she replied. "They make them specially for the Cornish team." I know I don't live in Cornwall and I know I'm not a good enough fencer but I want to be in the Cornish team. They get to fence in BLACK breeches.

stop hit

2008-07-08T10:34:00.005+01:00

Fencing was crowded (again) and I was tired (again).

On this occasion, the tiredness was assisted by a party on the previous night. The chef was there too and had conrtibuted a splendid pavlova to the proceedings. And, after Pimm's on the lawn, followed by wine with food, she made her speciality cocktail - the Left Bank martini, which has a fabulous drink and the sort of kick you notice at the first sip. I , don't suffer from hangovers, which is just as well, but after a few minutes fencing the chef, I began to flag.

It was crowded yet again and we spent much time in conversation, hoping to get back on the electric piste. Our talk ranged from literature to the chef's planned move to Paris, where she has now found a flat with good kitchen near a large fencing club that is large enough to have four dedicated epee pistes. I am envious. Eventually, as it became apparent that we were likely to wait a long time for another bout - and neither of us was particularly energetic - the chef began to analyse our fencing. She pointed out that we were given to simultaneous attacks, with the result that most of our hits were doubles. "We need to learn how to parry," she declared.

I agreed though I have some hesitation about my ability to parry. For all my efforts, my wrist isn't strong enough to parry fierce attacks, particularly when they catch my blade in an envelopement. Work on feinting and deceiving the blade might be helpful - although my lack of speed is a further handicap. However, practice and coaching are always helpful and encouraging. We headed to one of the coaches who seemed to be detaching himself from the beginners and asked for some help. While waiting we were assigned to a small fencer - a 9-year-old would-be epeeist - and asked to show her some helpful techniques.

I had my usual anxieties - was I holding my sword correctly and could I really show anyone anything? But I looked at the girl's enthusiasm and decided that female epeeists deserved all the encouragement they could get. Soon I was standing with my arm extended, asking her to hit to forearm, upper arm and shoulder - and she was smiling despite the weight of the sword. The chef stood beside the small fencer offering further assistance and advice. That's another epeeist in the making, perhaps, though I think I'd hesitate to hit someone so very small.

At last it was time for the coaching session. The chef is quicker to pick things up than I am but the coach is helpful and encouraging. He decided we should work on the stop hit, which involves taking the blade in various ways (simply, by circling it first) and continuing to control it so that an opponent can't reach your body while your blade, sliding down the other, achieves a hit. (When the stop hit moved into octave, the chef was a little anxious about the danger this might entail for our male coach but I was mainly concerned to fix my blade somewhere in the right region.)

It all seemed manageable as we practised the stop hit in slow motion and then at greater speed. But when it came to fencing a couple of points with the coach, my concentration and blade control went haywire. I noticed that the chef won her points, however. She'll be pretty dangerous in Paris.

squires

2008-06-27T23:33:00.003+01:00

I think I could do with a squire - not that I could afford one. I don't like the idea of having a servant but a squire might be a sort of apprentice, who could undertake helpful tasks while viewing me with respect.

The chef occasionally undertakes the sort of tasks I might entrust to a squire. For instance, she helps me zip up my jacket. (If I'm ever rich, I'm going to buy a fencing jacket with a zip at the side.) Sometimes she holds my sword bag while I get onto my bike. But I'm afraid that, as she admitted at the pub after fencing, she doesn't view me with the respect I'd get from a squire. For instance, she watches me get on my bike with fencing kit for the entertainment value.

While I lack a proper squire, there are plenty of people who help along the way. For instance, there's the cobbler. At the chef's suggestion, I took my sword bag, which had an awkward hole just the size of a foil-blade, to the local cobbler. I don't think he'd ever been asked to mend a sword bag before but he assessed the task, worked out what would be required, asked for £3.95 and gave me a receipt for the bag. When I returned two days later, he didn't demand the receipt - for some reason he remembered me. He'd fixed the bag with a neat leather patch which reinforces the whole bottom of the bag.

Another helper came to the rescue at fencing. This time it wasn't me who required help but the newish left-handed foilist (and occasional eppeeist). When I entered the women's changing rooms I found her searching for a lost earring - a special one that had been a 21st birthday present. Apparently she'd taken both off carefully before putting them carefully in a plastic bag - only to discover that the bag had a hole in the bottom. One earring was safe but the other had vanished. Together we searched everywhere - even a rubbish bin - and came to the conclusion that there was only one place left: inside the grille of the radiator behind the bench. The chef joined us as we headed to the reception to ask for help. A young man accompanied us back to the women's changing room. He assessed the problem and realised that the radiator would have to be dismantled - then told us to continue fencing while he looked. He came into the hall half an hour later with the missing earring in his hand. I noticed that he'd cut himself dismantling and reassembling the grille. He was blushing - I think with pride in his achievement but he may also have been embarrassed by the time spent in the women's changing room.

Either the cobbler of the dismantler of radiators would make an excellent squire. They have such useful skills. I think the chef would prefer to recruit her hairdresser who is called George and, in her view, "lovely." He certainly did an excellent job of cutting her hair, though she worried that it wasn't staying straight and in place under her fencing mask. Apparently George is also expensive so perhaps he wouldn't want to be a squire, even though the chef is planning her move to Paris which would provide him with opportunities for travel and a new clientele. And I fear I don't have the fencing skills that a good squire might wish me to impart.

Lately, I have not been fencing well. I like to blame tiredness, since I've been short of sleep. But I fear there are other causes: an insistent ache in my right shoulder and the continuing problem of policeman's foot. And then there's ageing. Perhaps I can't ever expect to get any better, which is a sad thought. Sometimes I wonder if I'll continue fencing after the summer. I'd like to continue, I think - but am I good enough to go on?

the apprentice and the Cardinal's men

2008-06-12T20:36:00.006+01:00

The chef blamed it all on Surallan, a sinister character who stalks through The Apprentice making bad decisions. Worst of these, in the chef's eyes, was his decision to fire Lucinda, who had good taste in shoes.

In my opinion, Surallan's worst decision was to appear on TV on fencing nights, luring epeeists away from the piste and into comfortable armchairs.

The chef was torn. She wanted to fence but she also wanted to see the last episode of The Apprentice. She seemed to think it her duty to criticise Surallan's choice while drinking gin with a friend. She's finding it hard to make fencing at the moment. Next week she will be indulging in academic frivolities instead of serious swordplay.

Through Facebook, we arranged to arrive early and start fencing straight away, although the chef had second thoughts as we stood, epees in hand, occupying the space that could become a piste. "But people will watch us," she said. I hadn't thought her so self-conscious.

We waited a few minutes until a few other fencers had begun. The beginners were warming up by running round in circles. No electric pistes were ready. The chef and I fenced steam for a while. The chef suggested I could make a buzzing noise whenever one of us landed a hit, but I declined. I wasn't sure how to indicate red or green and I wasn't entirely sure how well our hits were landing. Meanwhile, at the other end of our space, people who knew how fiddled with the electric boxes.

Wires and boxes have halted fencing quite often lately. The chef and I pondered over possible solutions. We could try to learn how to mend them, but that would take time and more equipment than we could muster. The obvious solution was new boxes.

Last week I attempted to find a new use for child fencers. (The chef said I should have made it clear that the small fencer didn't fix the epee, by the way - a magnetic screwdriver was required.) This time my suggestion was perhaps a little unusual. Perhaps, I suggested, we could kidnap some of the beginners and use the ransom money to buy new boxes. "But how shall we choose which ones to kidnap?" asked the chef, who prefers grown-ups to children.

I thought the easiest way would be to choose the smallest candidates as they would be most portable. The chef and I don't have a car between us and I'm not sure my bicycle basket is big enough. But the chef suggested it would be better to choose the wealthiest, because then we would need fewer. "Look at their trainers," she suggested.

We contemplated the beginners' trainers, gradually realising we didn't know how to identify expensive trainers. Fortunately at that moment the youth, who had been fiddling with a box and a wire, stood up and indicated that it was done.

When we inspected his handiwork, there was something strange about it. Two reels had been connected to one another. The youth challenged both of us to a duel, simultaneously.

At first the box refused to register hits. The chef and I fenced the youth singly. He was hitting hard and parrying my blade with such strength that I found it impossible to disengage. I managed some surprise hits, noting his habit of raising his forearm slightly, leaving a neat target if I could manage to lunge fast enough. Mostly I couldn't. But later, against the chef, I suddenly managed and accelerating lunge and found that the change of tempo took her by surprise.

Then the chef made the linked boxes work and somehow persuaded the chef and me to accept his challenge. "It will be humiliating," the chef said. I tended to agree but it was also a bit like the movies. The chef suggested a strategy. "I'll distract him with swordplay and you come in and hit him."

It didn't work. The chef and the youth fenced rapidly down the piste and I ran after them, trying to catch up. They waited for me. Then the youth hit me.

After this had happened a couple of times, I remembered the movies. The youth, with all his callow determination to win, was plainly d'Artagnan. The chef and I were the villains - the Cardinal's men. We didn't need to play by the rules. Why stop just because the youth had hit one of us or because we'd fenced him off the end of the piste.

Lawlessness was much more fun ... and made sure we got some hits in. "This is much more like real life," I said cheerfully. In real life people don't stop fencing just because a light comes on or they here a buzz.

"In real life we'd both be dead," said the chef sternly, "and there'd be blood everywhere."

"Well, allright ... it's like the movies."

Then the chef set off for her date with Surallan and the youth acknowledged that he, too, might head home to watch TV. What with the football and Surallan there were hardly any epeeists, although there were still queues for pistes.

I was about to pack up and go when a newish foilist - a left-hander who's fenced a lot elsewhere - asked if I'd like to fence steam foil. I was about to say yes when I remembered she'd mentioned an epee that she'd bought buy never used. We agreed on epee first, then foil.

I know enough about fencing to know that she was still half in epee mode - aiming for the body and exposing her forearm and elbow at times. This would have helped me if she hadn't been so fast. She didn't have the foilist's useful fault of hesitation (to establish right of way). I managed the occasional hit on her mask, leg and arm as she's not used to defending them, but, epeeist though I am, I was outclassed by a foilist.

Then we fenced foil. I think one of my hits might have been valid. She smashed me. "Half my age," I told myself. "It's OK."

It was still daylight when I cycled home. The elderflowers were in full blossom and beginning to weigh down the hedges by the cycle path. In a week or two there will be tiny purple fruit - and birds and insects.