The snail's revenge

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.

culinary genius

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!

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.

cycling in breeches

I blame the Gray Epee ... and the brown, high-heeled shoes.

"Why not cycle?" the Gray Epee asked, using his occasional alias of "Jim". He thought I could cycle with the chef. I wasn't sure I could cycle with the sword and I knew the chef wasn't fencing. She was taking a rest from her career as cook and swashbuckler and giving an academic paper. (It was a triumph, I later learned.)

I thought of all the excuses. There were plenty of reasons not to fence. I've never quite got the knack of cycling with a sword-bag and my front light was broken. That happened when I cycled too fast over a speed hump - and there are three in the driveway to the leisure centre.

My son took the Gray Epee's side. Of course I should cycle. I didn't have to go on a road, just a well-lit cycle track. It would be quick. I would like it.

I disagreed, though I wasn't wure how to get there. My heel was aching after rather too much walking in my best, brown, high-heeled shoes. I didn't think I could walk. (I wasn't sure I could fence.) I breathed in so that I could button and zip my breeches. It was a struggle.

And then I realised that, while I hadn't planned to cycle in breeches, they would at least be bright white on the journey home. And cycling might help in the struggle for fitness.

It's hard to get on a bike with a crossbar while carrying a sword-bag. I attempted to fling my leg over the cross-bar and hoped no-one was watching. Then I tried to balance the bag. The sword-tips wedged themselves precariously in my bicycle bag. I had to be careful. The bag isn't really meant for epees. I bought it when I bought my first foil since I thought I shouldn't carry a naked blade on the tube, in the Royal Academy or on a peace demo. Now I use the bag for two epees as well, it doesn't shut.

The cat came out to watch and offered to come with me. My son took him back into the house. Then I set out ... and the Gray Epee was right. Cycling is the way to get to fencing, especially on a Spring evening. (Spring had arrived shortly after lunch.)

Fencing with aching feet, plantar fasciitis and a still-swollen leg seemed slightly unwise. I joined in footwork practice, but the most I could manage was a shuffle. I couldn't manage more than the suggestion of a lunge and was glad no-one suggested a fleche or ballestra. Then I finished kitting up and faced my fellow epeeists.

There were only four of us fencing epee: me, the dancer, the doc and the youngster. I did not fence well. I feel almost as clumsy and slow as when I started fencing, but I kept going and managed a few hits. They may have been given away. I noticed that the dancer bounced as though his fight was choreographed by Bournonville. His bladework and footwork was elegant and fancy, which let me see the hits coming. Every so often I hit him. I mentioned this afterwards, because I was hitting him more than I should. Later it occurred to me that he may have been giving me a chance but, if so, he was polite enough not to say so. He's very good to fence.

I managed one good hit against the dancer. I slipped my blade below his guard, clipping it as I hit his wrist. He said "good hit" and I wanted to say, "Yes, it was, wasn't it?" It's one of the best hits I've ever managed and it will be a long time before I forget it - or manage another hit as good.

For the first time this year, we got hot fencing and opened the double doors to the car park. Then we got chilly and put our hoodies on.

For a lot of the time, my main aim was to keep my sword-arm up and keep fencing. I practised against the doc and the dancer twice and the youngster once. I kept going and was better than last week, which isn't a great deal. By the end, I was exhausted. And then I cycled home.

I think my opponents tried to avoid hitting my leg. My right arm is more bruised than it has been for a long time. I must sort out a co-ordinating blue and purple T-shirt.

preparing to lunge

It's getting better. My "policeman's foot" (or plantar fasciitis) only hurts a little, when I've been walking for half an hour or so. I can put weight on my foot when I get out of bed in the morning and I can stay on my feet for a while if it's required.

I've been careful, however. I didn't wear my highest heels to work. I stopped running up and down stairs, and limited excursions from my office. Taking my place on a peace stall at the weekend, I stayed for a mere half-hour, leaving when a fellow Quaker arrived. I'm hesitating about the peace march in two weeks' time. Perhaps I'll find a way of reaching Aldermaston on Easter Monday. Campaigning for peace can involve an awful lot of standing and walking.

At least I managed a little fencing. Walking the mile and a half to the leisure centre was painful and it was embarrassing to explain that I would fence as much as I could from a stationary position. It seemed quite an imposition. There were more than fifty fencers. The beginners remain enthusiastic while seniors were preparing for a big, local Open. I fenced a couple of epeeists who did their best to fence down to my level. I didn't do well but any fencing was an achievement.

I wanted to watch the Open this weekend but I've too much to do and I'm not sure my foot would benefit from the long bus journey and the standing. There won't be any seats for spectators.

But somehow I've got to get some exercise. I'm determined to fence properly - footwork, lunges and all - next week. My breeches are dangerously tight.



Note: The chef alerted me to a spelling mistake which I have now corrected. There is an interesting footnote on the relationship between "stationary" and "stationery" here.

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.

fencing the chef

"I am a culinary genius," my opponent declared on Facebook last week.

It's probably true. One of her plans for the future involves opening a cake shop She's the only person I know who makes her own crumpets.

However, culinary genius has its effects, I observed, as I helped her zip her jacket last week. (I had to breathe in to manage the buttons on my breeches but that's lack of exercise and not genius.)

"I can't breathe properly," the chef said. "Oh good," I responded, "that will give me a chance."

But it didn't. We fenced steam epee, as the pistes were taken. The hall was still packed with keen beginners and eager intermediates so we didn't even have a whole piste, just a little space. I was hit quite a lot and, in return, I hit the air around the chef's arm and head. I wondered if I would ever hit anybody or anything at all.

We took a break and conceded the space. "Let's try sabre," I said, thinking that I might manage to hit her with a slashing motion. She wasn't keen. She wanted to try foil. But she accompanied me to the weapon store. There weren't any sabres. "I think it's telling us something," she said. "It's telling us to look for sabres elsewhere," I suggested brightly.

We found the sabres. They were in use. So we tried foil.

I kept hitting the chef's bib, or her mask, or her arm. She kept hitting me. Then she suggested we pause after each hit and analyse it, so that we could describe the fencing phrase and work out who had won. "Like in American football?" I asked ... and somehow that led to a discussion of American football and ice hockey. It was interrupted by the reasonable request, "Can we have this space if you're not using it?"

We retreated to the sidelines, realising we hadn't behaved well, and tried to recruit a fencer to help us to analyse fencing phrases and assign points. But all the fencers wanted to fence. Eventually we found a space again and fenced foil some more, trying to analyse each point. Mostly we analysed the different ways in which the chef had hit me or the ways in which I'd failed to establish right of way, so that my hit didn't count.

I went home wondering whether I could ever progress in fencing, or whether age-related deterioration had set in. The chef is less than half my age so has the advantage of youth.

She has the advantage of fitness too. She cycles everywhere, even up hills, and goes to the gym a couple of times a week. I walk, take trains and read in bed, which isn't quite so effective. However, yesterday her Facebook page announced that she had "failed miserably to go to the gym" and had gone to the pub instead. "Aha," I thought, "I'm in with a chance."

It didn't seem much of a chance but this week my epee seemed more comfortable in my hand. Before leaving the house I'd watched Joe the cat fending off an attack from a large, cross, grey fluffy cat, who has been in the habit of visiting our house on occasion since his kitten days. The grey fluffy cat has lately developed a bad temper, hissing and growling on the most minor provocation. During Joe's recuperation, we shut the cat-flap so that Joe couldn't get out and other cats couldn't get in. From Grey Fluff's point of view, his territory had been stolen. A new cat was encroaching on his empire (Grey Fluff tries to control a number of houses, threatening the occupants until they provide fuss, warm beds and cat food.) Earlier today, Joe responded to Grey Fluff's attach with a sleepy and surprised stare. In the evening, he finally fought back for a moment and Grey Fluff disappeared through the cat-flap, though a moment later his paw reached back in, claws at the ready.

I was appalled at the little outbreak of violence and the cats' quick shft from hissing, growling anger to the rapid whirr of paws and claws. But when I held my epee later in the evening, something in the speed of the cats seemed to inspire me. For the first time in weeks I moved faster and more fluently, gaining accuracy at the same time. It wasn't brilliant - except for me. I started to land hits on the chef - not all the time, but about as many as she landed on me. I was hitting her right arm. OK, she hadn't been to the gym and, as I learned later, her arm was hurting even before I started hitting it, but I felt as though I was moving with greater agility.

Later I fenced a good epee fencer who had been unable to fence for some months. Usually I can't touch him when he's been away because he compensates for stiffness in movement with devastating accuracy but this time I managed to land hits - not the majority of hits but many more than usual. I was tiring, however, and my hits became less frequent. My arm was aching and I was relieved when he signalled that the next point would be the last.

I didn't get as much fencing as I'd have liked. The hall is still crowded and fencers wait for steam space as well as pistes. The coaches are kept busy. The club is popular just now, with sabreurs in particular doing well in competition. But tonight I regained something I'd lost in the last few weeks: the sense that I can still improve and, on occasion, go beyond my expectations. Tonight, once again, I felt like a fencer.

fencing badly

I can't think of anything I did well at fencing this week. I was tired and unfit, which didn't help, but sometimes I can get a decent hit or two in those circumstances. This week, if someone had placed a brick wall in front of me and told me to hit it, I'd have missed.

We began the warm-up with gentle jogging in a circle, responding to commands to put right, left or both palms on the floor, or to change direction. My breeches were tight, I was tired and I cheated by scraping the floor with my finger-tips. Even the balance exercise seemed hard and my co-ordination was weaker that possible. Footwork was hampered by the fear my breeches would split. Then it was time to wait for a piste and, finally, to fence.

My first bout was disastrous. Then the expert fencer of last week decided to be kind by lowering his arm to provide a target. The gesture lowered my confidence to somewhere below zero. I missed - again and again - till I was furious with myself. I asked him to stop and fence properly. He did, and I took some pretty nasty bruises which still keep me from sleeping.

I accepted a couple more invitations to fence, feeling slow and stupid, with predictable results. Eventually a patient opponent corrected my en garde position and made me lunge. He promised tp help me practise my lunges next week, at the same time as he coaches his small son. I need it. I need coaching, concentration and an improbably level of fitness.

At least my breeches didn't split. And I don't plan to give up just yet.

glowing in the dark

Soon there'll be tales of a new ghost haunting the water-meadows. I don't think anyone screamed. Perhaps they were mute with terror. It wasn't intended. I just went to fencing and came home when it was over.

This week, I booked a cab. My son planned to come but then he was tired and, at the last minute, his back hurt, so I got in the cab on my own. I was already in my fencing kit so that I could join the warm-up straight away.

It was only as I got ready for footwork practice that I realised: I'd forgotten my jeans.

When I'm with others, I phone for a cab if I don't have a lift. If I'm on my own I either cycle or walk. And fencing kit isn't every day walking gear.

I put it out of my mind and got on with the footwork practice. I wanted to get my lunges right. Footwork was harder than usual. The coach's instructions ,included "and when I lunge, I want you to parry quarte and riposte with a lunge". So we were moving backward and forward, trying to keep steps neat and maintain distance through shifts of speed, waiting for the cue to parry and riposte with a lunge. By the end, we were moving at speed awaiting the cue to fleche. At least I didn't fall over.

Therer weren't many epeeists but in any case I'd made a resolution to do more foil. My opponent said that at least I wasn't fencing like an epeeist but I had to keep reminding myself "small target area", "establish right of way", "parry", "no doubles". It was helpful, however, forcing me to be precise and deal (or fail to deal with) different kinds of guard. And it paid off when I moved on to epee. I was better able to plan hits - well, sometimes. On one occasion I even said to myself, "Next time I'm going for the wrist" - and I made it!

My second opponent was on top form; light, fast and accurate. Most of the hits I landed were doubles and it took me quite some while to land any at all. Between bouts I stood with other resting fencing by the open doors. The weather's warm again and everyone's first impulse after a bout was to stand in a cool breeze.

Only as I took off my jacket did I realise the impact I'd make when walking home, dressed in white shoes, socks and breeches with a black T-shirt and hoodie. My bottom half would glow in the dark. Mty top half would be invisible. I'd look like half the ghost of a fencer sliced in half by a careless or vicious sabreur.

Luckily my path lay along the road throuth the water-meadows and one young fencer's mother stopped and offered me a lift. But I'd already walked a quarter of a mile or more, with my bottom half glowing white in a black night.

I wouldn't mind a few new ghost stories.