corridor fencing

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.

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.

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.