the holiday problem

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.

socks and bruises

The breeches are fine, though a little tight at present. And I've no problem with the mask or plastron. I have occasional problems with shoes, but I can cope. One heel rubs but I've no blisters yet. Still I dream of the sudden acquisition of money - not a great deal, not even enough to do sabre, but just enough for a little refurbishment of my fencing wardrobe.

The jacket was an economy measure - the cheapest I could find of the requisite thickness (tested to350 Newtons). I'd like a thicker jacket - 800 Newtons would be good. Epeeists hit hard and perhaps, with a thicker jacket, the black bruises down my right arm and leg wouldn't be quite so dark. More than that, I'd like a side-fastening jacket. I'm fed up of the weekly scramble and fumble and the embarrassed request for assistance with the zip at the back. It's a fine jacket - a strong jacket that wears well ... but I often dream of having enough money for one with a zip at the side.

I dream of proper fencing socks too ... but then I'm moving into luxury territory. I don't get hit on my legs so often that I need padded socks. Rugby socks are fine and much cheaper, though I'm not sure why rugby players want to wear white socks. But padded socks with magic names like "Duellist" or "Leon Paul" would be absolutely splendid. I wonder if I'd move better in them too.

Of course, there are other things I'd like too: more time for fencing, more weapons, occasional wins. I came close at foil last time, but the chef beat me in the end. These days she always does, but I keep hoping. I got a couple of hits that pleased and surprised me. But it's been an odd fortnight for fencing with the hall so crowded that we're all queuing for pistes or taking little stretches of floor for steam practice. I counted 45 fencers the other night, though quite a few were beginners lining up and practising lunge, parry, riposte. I took a couple of bad hits to my bruised arm early on and after that the epee weighed my arm down more than I like - but I kept going as long as it was my turn on the piste.

Later, one of the coaches got me and the chef to practise accuracy. He held an epee in each hand and, as he lowered his arm, we went for the crook of the elbow. At first we were standing, then moving slowly back and forth and finally we had to parry first or respond to pressure from his blade. And all the time my arm ached. It still does.

I'm dreaming of weapons and new fencing clothes. If only the cat avoided opponents. He's injured again - the vet prescribes tablets, injections and lots of comfort. It's all rather expensive. Sometimes at night the cat curls up on my bruised arm and purrs happily in his sleep. It seems cruel to move him, but in the end I do.

5 - 4

Sometimes fencing goes right.

It shouldn't have been a successful week. My resolutions to exercise and practise came to nothing - as usual, I couldn't find the time. Well, I might have exercised during insomniac episodes but to read or make herbal tea. So I arrived, tired and unfit.

We shared our flood stories. There are floods nearby. Although they didn't threaten fencing, some fencers have faced tricky journeys as roads were closed and some railway tracks submerged. I found it hard to focus in the warm-up and dreaded my first encounter.

My opponent was a third my age: taller, stronger and a more experienced fencer. I didn't expect to take any points off him, although he said he'd been up half the night. We began by free fencing before a bout. I was encouraged to see that we began with two doubles.

It wasn't brilliant fencing - but it was very good for me. I was thinking strategically - suddenly the advice I received a few weeks ago began to make sense - and was varying my attacks. I knew what I wanted to do and sometimes it worked. And sometimes the point of my blade seemed to have its own ideas. I carried through a few attacks without hesitation. My opponent hit my arm a few times - harder than usual, which suggested he was not on good form.

We moved to a bout - just to 5 as the hall was hot. I took the first two points, one with a hit to the forearm. "Angulate," a voice said in my brain, echoing my coach.

After two points, I thought that was it. He would improve and concentrate and take five points in a row, Losing 5-2 has happened before and it felt OK. I expected to lose and he took the next two points - but I could see that they were easy ones I should have defended. I had to get the next point. I concentrated and took it. I can't remember but that may have been my wrist hit. Then he came back and took the next two points. 4-3. It was more than respectable but I wasn't letting go. I should remember which point was which but I don't. I recall a hit to the knee and a hit where I took his blade on the guard and kept going as he felt the impact jar.

I'd pulled up to 4-4. That was it, I thought, pleased with my performance. But as he attacked, I saw and opening. My blade took control and landed just as it should. 5-4 to me. I had won a bout.

It doesn't happen often. It hardly ever happens.

Suppose I were d'Artagnan. Perhaps I could defeat one of the Cardinal's men - so long as I was well-rested and he'd partied hard before a long ride through the night. It could happen - in my dreams.