the villain laughed ....

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.

cats and swords

As you can see, he's a beautiful cat. I'm not sure if he's our cat yet, but if he's ours his name is Joe. He's lived with us for a week and a half. He came in quietly, as cats do, and lay down by the fire, indicating that this was his house and we were his people. There wasn't much we could do about it so we offered cat food. He's living with us now. And I think he's already had an impact on my fencing.

Last fencing night looked good. I was able to work from home so I reckoned on a leisurely stroll to to fencing - perhaps even time for some exercise at home. I should have known it wouldn't work like that.

I've told the full story elsewhere - and that's where I'll post feline follow-ups. It's enough to say that on the morning of my fencing day, I came downstairs to pools of blood - and no cat. A fox had been barking in the night but I don't know what was to blame. The cat came in briefly and left again - he may have overheard my daughter's phone-call to the vet or my call to a neighbouring sabreur who owned a cat basket. We finally got Joe to the vet in the evening. His wound opened again and he dripped blood over the vet's table.

(Note to North American readers: we Brits always call a veterinarian a "vet" - here the term has nothing to do with the military.)

A decision was made to keep Joe in overnight and operate in the morning - the only question was "Do you take credit cards?" Afterwards my son and I picked up pizzas and I wondered whether to head, late and shakily, to fencing. There was no time to walk. I rang the cab company, changed, grab my swords and backpack and headed into the cold.

The hall was warm. There must have been about 50 fencers in attendance, 20 of them beginners learning what a plastron was and how to wear a mask. I had no chance for a warm-up. Instead, I found myself telling anyone who would listen the story of the cat, and how I seemed to have a cat even though I didn't really want one. A critically ill cat seemed more than I could cope with in a world of responsibilities.

I tried to forget the cat and focus on fencing. "Let's impress the beginners," I said to a fellow epeeist. She suggested gently that we might not be very impressive. "We're rather slow," she said. I thought that the size of the swords might compensate. So for five minutes or so the beginners were treated to the sight of me being hit repreatedly - and fairly slowly - with a big sword while I went on thinking about the cat.

I might have been hit just as many times but I like to believe that, if I hadn't been thinking about the cat, I'd have put up more resistance. Eventually my blade found it's way to one or two hits - even on the arm - but it had little assistance from me.

My fencing didn't improve all evening - and an attempt at foil resulted in a run of bib hits, which aren't, I think, legal yet. Still, I was half distracted.

At the end of the evening I set out to walk home - given the vet's bill I plainly should avoid too much expenditure on taxis. It's only a mile and a half and an easy walk - or so I thought until I realised that I'd arrived in fencing clothes with no coat. It was the only day all week without rain. Instead, the night air was white with freezing fog. I gritted my teeth and strode out, shivering slightly.

At last luck and kindness were on my side. A fellow fencer - the victim of my wine the week before - pulled up beside me and offered a lift. I must have reinforced his impression of my clumsiness as, between cold and shakiness from worry, I dropped my swords on the road. But I clambered in and was soon home to discover a neighbour's cat had taken Joe's place and was fast asleep on my bed.


Note: In case you're concerned about the cat, he came through the operation and is now convalescent. He's got to go back to the vet a couple of times but he seems much happier and livelier. He's had a go at using the computer too.

bow-ties, shoes and swords

I hardly recognized the fencers.


We had gathered at the golf club for our annual dinner and awards ceremony. There had been suggestions about dressing up, but I hadn't expected a white-tie affair.

Not that white ties were compulsory. There were also black bow-ties, coloured ties, shirts without ties, waistcoats and, from determinedly casual dressers, sweatshirts. The women did their best but could hardly compete, althought there were some fine dresses and ensembles. In particular, one epeeist had gone for the 1940s look, with straight seams down the back of her legs. Were they stockings, I wondered, or the really authentic 1940s austerity look, created by gravy browning and eyebrow pencil. Alas, she had adopted the modern option - tights. Still, her shoes and dress were very fine, and she approved of my shoes too, before our conversation moved to more general subjects. Soon we had left outfits and fencing far behind and were talking of cinema. "You must see Ang Lee's Lust. Caution," I was told. "I've heard it's good," I responded. "Oh yes," my friend replied, "and the shoes are excellent."

We seemed determined to show that our interests went beyond fencing, although there were fencing questions in the traditional quiz. I didn't know many answers. I have no idea how indicators for national rankings work and couldn't calculate the numbers of D.E. bouts in a large contest. At least I remembered which British epeeist won the 2007 Heidenheim championship. One question revealed the decision to include the bib as a target in foil. My hits often land on the bib but it still sounds an awful idea - and an expensive one. Presumably foilists, like sabreurs, will need special and expensive masks for fencing on electric pistes - a further deterrent for fencers with less money. Epee remains the pauper's sport, with the cheapest equipment.. (Looking at discussion sites, I see talk of outlawing the fleche as well. I hope it will stay. I've never used a fleche in combat but there's something exhilarating about ending footwork practice with a fleche and a shout.)


Speeches at the end of the meal were crammed with jokes. We poured the last of the red wine and were easily amused. Award winners posed with their trophies as cameras, mobile phones and glasses were raised. The main trophies are retired weapons (with ornaments for keeping) but there are also medals for second and third place. We cheered and applauded the winners. Opposite me sat the new master-of-arms. I leaned over to admire his swords and medals and tipped my wine glass. A red stain grew on the medal ribbons. No-one had white wine to remove the stain so a friend tried using salt. It didn't work.