winded

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.

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

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

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.

Life in the medium lane

The chef opted out of fencing this week. She'd intended to go but the lure of gin and The Apprentice on TV lured her away from the salle (OK,. the leisure centre). I haven't watched The Apprentice but feel I'm in a minority. It's discussed on Facebook, in all the papers and at fencing.

The hall was still crowded and there were eight other epeeists - all male - as well as sabreurs, foilists and a large number of beginners and intermediates. I was tired from work, worry and insomnia and didn't have the energy to seek out bouts. I did my best, accepting three offers, trying to keep my guard up. "Remember your elbow," a fencer hissed," as I attached my body wire.

I remembered my elbow and noticed the way it crookedly evaded the protection of the guard. I took a few hits, though not on my elbow, and also managed a few - I'm not sure how. A couple of hits to the forearm pleased me but too much of the evening passed in a blur of exhaustion.

For the past two weeks, fencers have been plagued by technical problems. Last week, the foilists and sabreurs were having problems with an electric box which decided it would work only for epeeists. A small group of fencers stood around making helpful suggestions about further tests that would locate the fault. This week, an epeeist was affected as two tiny screws flew out of the button at the end of his blade. After ten minutes in which several of us stared and patted the floor, both were located and the attempt began to re-attach the button. "This needs small hands," the epee's owner groaned, so I found a small intermediate fencer and asked him to help. I suspect it's the fencing equivalent of finding a child to go up a chimney.

Eventually the blade was restored to health, I had another bout and decided to leave in daylight. My arm was hurting - it still is, though there aren't many bruises. I think I must have been holding it at an awkward angle. Cycling was slightly tricky and at one point I swerved as I approached one of the sleeping policemen. (Note: "sleeping policeman" is a name given to a bump in the road that slows down the traffic.)

I think I'm moving as well as before the fall now but I still need opportunities for exercise without putting too much pressure on my foot - the "policeman's foot" continues. Today I had the chance to go swimming - a friend offered me a lift to the pool. I'm even more out of practice at swimming than fencing and decided beforehand that I'd set myself a limit of 30 lengths (750 metres).

I was tired at first but the tiredness receded as I swam alternate lengths of breast stroke and back stroke. It wasn't exciting like fencing - and I carry on worrying as I go up and down. There were fewer people in the pool than at a usual fencing session. My friend - also out of practice - headed, as usual, to the slow lane. Before I took up fencing I'd have been there too.

These days, I swim in the medium lane. Sometimes people overtake me - today two girls discussing their social lives easily overtook without pausing in their conversation. The medium lane makes its own demands. Sometimes I have to struggle to keep up. Swimming in the medium lane may not see much of an achievement but I'm pleased to be there.

new bruises

"It doesn't hurt, does it?"

I've lost count of the number of times non-fencers have posed that question. The majority of people seem to assume that hitting being hit with a sword doesn't hurt because the point is covered - and fencing clothing provides 100% protection. They're a bit shocked when they see the bruises.

Most sports hurt. Just watch runners' faces when they're doing the London Marathon. Even the gentlest sports involve aching limbs while muscle-damage is a frequent problem. Years ago, my daughter lost the use of her right arm for weeks after a teacher urged her to try harder at the shot-putt. (She was 12 and small for her age with no idea of the technique required.) I experienced hockey at school and would say that fencing is less dangerous. My best technique at hockey involved lurking in the pavilion to avoid being hurt - or volunteering as a back on the strongest side. I've been hit by a hockey ball and that was far worse than any fencing injury. Friends and colleagues who go to the gym return worn out and often gasping for a drink.

I suppose what alarms people is the idea that fencers set out to damage each other - that we see bodies in terms of target areas.







But no good fencer sets out to damage or wound an opponent. The aim is to land a secure hit, with just the right degree of force, attaching the blade - although sabres are different because they employ a slashing movement which cuts, usually lightly, to the head or torso. Sometimes I don't even feel the hit scored against me - but that's usually when my opponent is an expert using minimal force and maximum accuracy to score the point.

Bruises happen when a fencer uses too much force or when a fencer moves toward the attack, often to launch her/his own attack. Because of the number of hits in an evening's fencing, bruises are an inevitable result. Sabreurs display red slash-marks on their arms, foilists have small, circular dots while epeeists have larger, darker bruises because of the greater weight of the weapon and the greater force required to score a hit. Often I have a bruised area - usually on my right upper arm - where I've been hit repeatedly. This should tell me about problems I'm having with my guard.

It's quite possible that I cause worse bruises than I receive because I'm a less-practised fencer than most of my opponents and weaker at blade control. Although I'm often advised to be more aggressive, I sometimes move in too fiercely in an effort to attach the point. My opponents are almost always polite and say "sorry" if they think they've hit too hard.

This week I have a blue-purple splodge on my arm just below last week's yellow-green. As summer has arrived, I may have to explain the bruises.

My fitness and fencing are recovering slowly, though I was no match for the chef, who has returned after a couple of weeks' absence. "I'm not fit," she assured me, moving easily through footwork practice, and showing off the depth of her lunge. (The dancer has a brilliant lunge - the lowest I've ever seen. He was showing it off before sabre practice. Sadly he's deserted the epeeists for a couple of weeks, just because he wants to prepare for a competition.) Of course, it took me a while to land a single hit on her and, when I did, most of them were doubles.

Still, I fenced, I managed some hits and one or two of them pleased me. Between bouts, the chef told us of her planned move to Paris in the autumn - where else would chefs go? I offered her a job swap. I'd have liked to work near the Isle de St. Louis. But negotiations broke down. I was prepared for a salary swap, so long as I kept the cat and she looked after and maintained the teenagers. For some reason, she didn't think this a good deal. So I shall continue fencing in England while the chef will be cooking - and, I hope, fencing - in France.

She came to watch me getting on my bike with sword-bag, rucksack, handbag and water bottle. "You need a mounting block," she remarked. "A girl's bike would be easier." But I love my sturdy bike despite its cross-bar. It cost me £45 in a second-hand bike shop some years ago and was one of the best purchases I ever made. Somehow I managed to mount the bike without a block, at which point the chef noted that I'd forgotten to turn on my rear light. She turned it on for me. Then she said, "If I were your children, I wouldn't let you ride like that."

I said goodbye, wobbled a little, and cycled off into the night.

lttle fencing, much conversation

Four weeks ago, I had a plan. The chef was going on holiday and this looked like an opportunity. I would practise every week, take lots of exercise, eat healthy food and then, when she returned, I would amaze her with my skill and speed. I would beat her.

I don't know if it could have worked but my plan didn't involve tumbling from the loft down a defective ladder. It certainly didn't involve two weeks off fencing. I spent much of the time sitting still, often in the kitchen, which didn't help the healthy eating idea. Fencing was one of my first excursions apart from work and the chef's tea-and-gin birthday party, at which I consumed tea, gin and a range of foods including gin-and-tonic cake with Earl Grey icing. The party was a delight but involved no exercise apart from trips to the kitchen to load plates with food. Pleasurable as it was, it did not help my fencing.

It was very hard to fit into my breeches.

I took a cab to the leisure centre, having determined to use all my energy on fencing. I joined in the warm-up, only to give up a little later. The exercise involved touching the floor while running. I don't know if it was the running or my tight breeches that left me breathless. I certainly found it hard to touch the floor. Later I tried a little footwork. I was very slow.

When the chef and I started to fence, I wondered if I would score a single hit. Perhaps her holiday had involved a fitness regime. She certainly looked slimmer and healthy. After a while I began to score some hits. Perhaps she was inhibited by her concern not to hit my injured leg. The male epeeists were talking and laughing. I wondered if my incompetence had caused their laughter.

Fortunately the chef called an end to the bout. She said she was feeling the weight of the epee. My epee seemed heavy too - I'd forgotten the way my arm aches fencing epee after a fortnight off.

The hall was crowded again - I counted 47 fencers, including beginners, so there was a lot of waiting, and this was just as well. Standing up and making conversation was taking most of my energy. The chef and I fenced once again, briefly, while foilists checked defective bodywires. And later we found a small space - less than half a piste - and persuaded an injured sabreuse to ref. as we fenced foil. Epeeists fencing foil is not a pretty sight but it cheered up the ref. - she could hardly stop laughing to describe the fencing phrase. I'm afraid we are not good at establishing right of way or hitting to the chest but the chef is convinced that, with practice, we will improve. I suppose it's worth a try.

In theory we could have fenced for three hours. In practice we talked most of the time, and I was still tired when I left, 45 minutes before the session ended. To add to my annoyance, my heel was hurting in a way it hadn't while I rested. Policeman's foot is still a problem.


Evidently I'll have to take things easy at fencing for a while. However, I have had my bike repaired. The chef cycles everywhere and perhaps this is the source of her energy and fitness. (It may also be her youth, but there's not much I can do about that.) A couple of vigorous cycle rides may improve my fitness. And if I can find a way to seal my sword bag, I may even try cycling to fencing ... thought probably not in my breeches.

spag. bol. and daleks

NO FENCING THIS WEEK.

You may choose to stop reading here, but I suspect most fencers have had the experience of injury, although being hit by a flying sabre blade or stabbed by an unbaited epee is far more glamorous than a tumble from a ladder.

I am not entirely immobilised. I went shopping (by taxi, which felt luxurious) and even managed a day in the office (more taxis). I even managed a pub lunch with a friend. It helps to have an excellent local. And I dreamed about fencing.

The doctor signed me off work for ten days. When I asked him, he said very firmly that I mustn't fence last week, because any epee hit would aggravate the injury so that it would take far longer to heal. For a while I thought this might mean that I could fence this week, even though I was signed off work - some lack of logic there.

But I noticed I was tiring easily. Even the shopping trip left me shaky. And my leg remained stiff and painful, although the bruise, from my knee to the top of my thigh, was no longer the original deep purple. The day before fencing, I acknowledged that an ability to climb the stairs at home wasn't quite the same as agility on the epee piste. And I recognized that a light epee touch to the bruise might be even more painful than an affectionate cat patting me gently in his quest for food. Brief ideas of a little light foil were discarded too - my career as The Limping Blade would have to wait. I would spend the evening at home having supper in front of the TV.

The idea became more appealing when my daughter announced that she would cook supper, assisted by her boyfriend (the occasional sabreur). They are good cooks with a growing repertoire of dishes. Today's choice was the student staple spaghetti bolognese (vegetarian version with Quorn mince). As they took over the kitchen and began to chop garlic, I settled down on the sofa to watch the TV.

I rarely watch television although, at the moment, I have a weekly engagement with Doctor Who. I watched the first episode in 1963, when the Doctor was a stern, unpredictable grandfather, and have followed it ever since. The peak of my addiction was the period when Douglas Adams was script editor and occasional author and the doctor was reincarnated as Tom Baker, with wild hair, an absurdly long scarf and a penchant for jelly babies. My children had to make do with repeats when they were growing up, as there were no new series between 1989 and 2005, though there was a film. Then Doctor Who returned, better than ever, and I'm an addict again.

Instead of fencing, there was a programme that took me back to TV in my childhood. It was about live TV, back in the days when television dramas were broadcast as they were acted and repeats were repeat performances, often with a different technical crew. I don't know if any Doctor Who episodes were broadcast live - I wasn't paying enough attention - but at some point in the evening there was clip of the all-important episode that introduced the daleks.

Doctor Who and his companions move about time in their spaceship, the Tardis, which disconcertingly resembles (from the outside) a 1960s police telephone box. Originally the programme was intended to be educational - no aliens but history and scientific theory for children. Then the daleks arrived. They are impervious to usual methods of attack and their chief aims are domination of the solar system and the extermination of "inferior" species, such as humans. Their mechanical voices would rise to a screech as they repeated "EX-TERM-I-NATE .... EX-TERM-I-NATE", blasting fire and rays at the unfortunate beings who writhed in agony before them. They were deliciously scary and, when I was 9-years-old, I would hold my arms stiffly and attempt the dalek glide in the primary school playground. We were all daleks, screeching "EX-TERM-I-NATE" at one another.

It's not so sophisticated as fencing. But the early daleks had a problem that regularly led to their overthrow: they couldn't go upstairs. Their thought processes were remorselessly logical too; imaginative fantasy confused them. And while daleks have become streamlined and colour-coded for the 21st century, those old black and white daleks took me back to my childhood and Saturday evening viewing: Juke Box Jury followed by Doctor Who.

Supper was wonderful. Tagliatelli, which I prefer, had been used instead of spaghetti and the sauce was plentiful and well-flavoured. Every so often I would exclaim, "I remember that," or "Look, it's a dalek" and the teenagers would say "yes, mum," in a tone suggesting they were humouring the old. A glass of wine distracted me from my aching leg.

It must have been good for me. I'm definitely feeling better today. Next week, surely, I'll be fencing again.

Doctor Who is brilliant - but it would be improved by a bit more swordplay.

where's the horse?

You know the scene. The hero has swung from the chandelier and fought his way (backwards) up a spiral staircase. Just as the villains close in, he finds a window behind him. He breaks the window, whistles, jumps and lands comfortably on his horse's back. Then he gallops off to freedom.

If you haven't seen it, watch Le Capitain, starring Jean Marais, for this precise sequence of events. The Zorro films show something similar, though Toronado has a mind of his own.

We didn't cover this in fencing class and, unfortunately, horses weren't issued as part of the kit. So I was neither practised nor prepared.

I had spent the evening going up and down the ladder to the loft (a grand name for the storage space in the roof), forgetting that I was ever scared of heights. The ladder was one of those collapsible types, which needed the extension pegged into place. I don't know quite what happened - there was only one peg and it may have broken or slipped - but suddenly I was tumbling down from the loft as the ladder collapsed beneath me.

I know I was indoors but in any decent swashbuckling movie I would have landed comfortably on my horse's back and galloped away, sword in hand. I wasn't holding my sword and no horse arrived.

I can't have fallen more than eight feet and I wasn't badly hurt. The ladder broke my fall and I ended up, shaken and bruised, on the carpeted landing. That was last night. This morning my right arm is slightly stiff and my right leg hurts.

And it's the one-hit epee tonight.

I know I hadn't expected to do well, but I had expected to get there and take part. And now I'm not sure.

I'm going to insist the coaches teach us about swinging from chandeliers. You never know when it will come in useful.


POSTSCRIPT: A friend persuaded me to see the doctor - and the doctor has banned me from fencing tonight. Apparently it could make the bruising and swelling much worse. Apart from that, I'm recommended anti-inflammatories, pain-killers, ice-packs and rest.

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.

steaming on

The rain continues. Being British, we all talk about the weather in a "mustn't grumble" sort of way, reminding one another that the crops need it. But nostalgic memories of April sun creep in.

I'm writing this while the adrenalin works as pain relief. I just noticed that one of the hits to my right arm drew blood - just where they apply the needle at the blood donor clinic. It's going to be bruised too and I suspect it will start hurting badly in half an hour or so As I enjoyed all my bouts, it was worth it.

The hall was packed and several epeeists had returned after absence. One had been in Paris at the same time as me. She'd been in the Place de la Bastille on election night, even though she knew Segolene Royal was unlikely to be celebrating there. "Did you burn any cars?" I asked eagerly, having heard about the disturbances. But she hadn't. There was just a fairly tame demonstration in French terms - perhaps with a couple of fireworks - until the police started throwing tear-gas at everyone.

We discussed the elections during footwork - annoying, I expect, but it was a while since we'd seen each other. It wasn't good for our footwork either - we kept forgetting which lowered arm called on us to lunge and which to step-lunge. But then I succumbed to foil and, after that, quite a lot of epee.

I wasn't particularly good or strategic, though every so often there was a hit that pleased me. But I enjoyed it a great deal. The evening ended with a steam bout (which we decided half way through should go to 20, since there seemed enough time). Epee is the easiest weapon to ref on electric and the hardest on steam. Refs have to be persuaded and cajoled into giving it a go. "Please ref for us ... we'll make it easy for you."

"Could you please hit each other on the side nearest me?" our ref pleaded, as we turned to her for a decision. "I can't see if a hit lands."

Then, "Do you think he hit you before you hit him?"

Later I pointed out that she'd missed my hit ... possibly. "But he's more likely to get a hit than you," she explained, "so if I watch for his hits I've got more chance of seeing them"

"That's not fair," I complained. "I'm not so good as him so I need the extra points. Look for my hits and don't worry about his."

By this time we were both giggling so my opponent offered his help. "Why don't you give her one hit for every four you give me? That would be about right."

I'm not sure about the scoring - none of us was - but 4 to 1 overstated it. My opponent won 20-9 which seemed about right.