cat or sword?

Once again I was looking forward to fencing. But the cat had been wheezing and needed a visit to the vet. And another visit to the vet. And x-rays.

I was once again feeling guilty - if the cat was ill, I had plainly done something wrong - or neglected to do something I should have done. "I never meant to have a cat," I muttered defensively, scratching Joe behind one ear.

He purred back. People don't have cats - cats have people. Joe decided some while ago - could it be three years back? - that he would be our cat. So I'm responsible for food, bills, trips to the vet and general cat-care.

It's usually my son who assists and, last fencing day, he collected Joe from the vet. "He's had x-rays," my son told me, "and a sedative."

I got home from work to find a sleepy, slightly confused cat and a son preparing to go out on a trip he'd arranged some time ago.

Plainly I couldn't leave Joe to go fencing. I settled down at home and tried to persuade Joe to eat his food, which had been sprinkled with white powder on the vet's recommendation. Joe didn't approve.

He began by trying to scrape the powder away with his paw. It didn't work. He tried sliding his bowl away and pretending I'd forgotten to feed him. He tried indignation and pathos. Finally he managed to turn the bowl over and spill its contents all over the floor.

Cat 1 - human 0 (the usual score).

We both had an early night.

Ouch!

I am getting old.

There's nothing exciting about that and most people reckon it's better than the alternative. However, I seem to be losing energy and enthusiasm.

There was a club message warning of less space than usual for fencing. It was the club's turn to play host to the local epée league and the beginners were taking part in their first match against a nearby club. Those of us not involved had the choice of queuing for the space not taken by the four electric pistes or watching the matches.

I walked to fencing. We've been lucky with weather compared to Cumbria but I felt too tired to cycle in the rain. I shouldered my backpack and sword bag and set out. I locked the house and turned the corner. Joe the cat emerged from the hedge and bounded hopefully beside me. I scooped him up and returned home. It's very hard to carry a cat as well as fencing kit but somehow I managed to lock him in. He wasn't pleased. Perhaps he'd overheard me talking about the mouse we saw the other week.

As I walked, I wondered whether I'd bother with the club championship this year. I may have been fencing a little better lately - with more desire to win - but the club championship is going to be a succession of defeats and I'm no longer sure I'll enjoy or learn from them. Besides, I have a lot of work to do, and I'm tired. d'Artagnan and Cyrano would have seen it differently but I've just started to read Les Miserables.

I determined to banish my autumnal gloom and, once in the leisure centre, started watching the first epée match. I arrived half way through and it wasn't going well. I joined the small group of spectators who clapped and called "good hit" encouragingly. I enjoyed watching the speed, accuracy and skill of the visiting fencers but could see that our team, while not doing badly, was not going to win. Every so often one of our fencers would win a few points in a row but the visiting fencers were far ahead and their progress was inexorable. They are top of the league and have won every match so far.

Before the second match, I managed some steam epée (not very well) but then returned to watch. The second team of opponents seemed less threatening, perhaps because of their youth and unconventional dress. One wore tracksuit bottom over his breeches while another wore jeans. Our team looked more cheerful - until the fencer in jeans gained a hit with a spectacular fleche. "That was a very fast fleche," someone said. Our team stayed ahead throughout but it never seemed easy. It looks as though the team will maintain its position at about the middle of the league.

Finally, as the visiting fencers packed their kit away, I had a chance to fence on the electric piste. I was uncomfortably aware of better fencers from another club watching curiously but I wanted to get in as much fencing as I could. My opponent had been away from fencing for a couple of months but he knew how to beat me. The few hits I landed tended to be doubles. I determined to try harder.

Suddenly I felt a pain in my left calf - not severe but more like a mild cramp. I tried to move forward with bent legs and it hurt more. I attempted another point. Then I stopped. I couldn't take up a fencing stance easily. Suddenly I was worried it would get worse. I ended the bout and walked away, hoping the sensation would vanish. It didn't. It was fine when I sat or stood but my calf ached when I moved.

I was glad I hadn't cycled - it meant I could accept a lift home.

Perhaps my calf will feel better tomorrow. Perhaps I'll fence in the club championship. I don't know.

advancing the arm

Every so often at fencing, someone tells me something so obvious that no-one had said it before - and that I hadn't managed to work out for myself. It happened this Saturday.

I was being coached by a fencer whose chief interest lies in sabre - epee is definitely his third weapon. For all that, I was doing badly: failing to land easy hits, failing to attach the blade, hitting wide, moving clumsily. I was holding my weapon too tight and my arm ached. There was no point in crying so I laughed.

But the coach, who joined me in laughter, took his job seriously. After a little practice, first stationary, then moving backwards and forwards, in which my hitting was erratic, the coach pointed out something new. "You need to straighten your arm as you move backwards. Your sword should be the last thing to follow. It's not like foil or sabre. You have to keep defending from an attack."

It made immediate sense. I'd been retreating from failed attacks or withdrawing down the piste with a bent arm, opening myself up to rapid arm and wrist hits. I was startled that I hadn't realised this before.

The coach went on to explain that he'd been at a coaches' day for foil and sabre but had watched the epee session. He'd wondered why the footwork practice for all three weapons had been feet only - and then learnt that in epee the arm must move differently - not just outstretched in advancing but also stretching out defensively when moving backwards. I tried it out: step backwards letting the arm follow the front foot. I practised down the length of the small hall: step back, pull in the arm; step back, pull in the arm. It felt right but also tricky.

I continued practising with the coach. Everything I did fell apart: I was trying to do too much and thinking rather than acting. My sword arm was out of sync with my body and my failure to land hits became hilarious. Yet I knew I'd learned something important. We free-fenced for a while, then rested. I rang home to enquire after Joe the cat, who had made a determined attempt to accompany me to fencing by running beside my bike. Eventually he decided to take interest in a different kind of fencing and headed home by a new route, throuigh a neighbour's garden. He wasn't yet home safely.

There were only four of us at fencing: two coaches, me and a small, intermediate foilist marked by a keen determination to learn.
She was practising foil and I was drinking water when the lawyer entered, wearing a pair of her favourite stripey socks. I was delighted. The lawyer is a sabreuse but, being busy with a new job, she hadn't been fencing for a while. I'd suggested on Facebook that she might come along on Saturday but never expected she would. She looked at the new colour-scheme for the corridors: "Hmm: baby-poo and the Exorcist" was her mild comment on the two tones of paint. It seemed as accurate a summary as any, and reassured me that the bright shades in the main hall are cheerful, if extremely bright, by comparison.

I assumed the lawyer had arrived to practise sabre but, as I'd suggested she turn up, she started by fencing epee with me. I had to adjust to fencing a smaller woman - I was out of practice since the chef set off on her Parisien adventure. At the same time, I was beginning to remember to straighten my arm while moving backwards. It was starting to feel right.

The lawyer suggested we fence to 5 and I agreed, wondering, as usual, how badly I would lose. Then I scored the first hit, followed by a double. I began to think that, just possibly, I could win and my mood changed. The lawyer brought the score to 2-2. I pulled ahead to 3-2, then 4-2 - and she caught up. 4-4. The next hit would be the decider, we thought, then hit simultaneously. 5-5. We continued. With a burst of energy, I advanced and somehow, in a scramble of blades, managed the final hit. 6-5.

I should point out that I had numerous advantages. The lawyer was out of practice and generously fencing in her third weapon. She had also rushed from home without inserting her contact lenses. When her glasses steamed up, she removed them, so she was probably fencing a white blur. But something had changed for me: I was ready to take advantage and fence for victory. It felt good.

There was a pause. My son rang to announce that Joe had returned home. The small foilist continued to practise with increased determination when her mobile phone rang. It stopped as she reached it. She looked at it - "My ex-husband," she said, with a groan. "Excuse me."

"Tell him you're fighting," the lawyer suggested. We gathered round to listen.

"I was fighting," she said. "With a man." ... "I just stabbed him." .... "In the chest." (We were trying to stifle our laughter by then.) "With a FOIL." She listened some more as we laughed and then, as the call ended, turned to us. "He thought I'd really stabbed someone in a fight." We roared.

I began to fence the other coach as the lawyer practised sabre. There were problems with my grip and my stance and I was opening myself up to attacks. Every so often I was getting through but not often enough and my hits were clumsy. After a while, the coach suggested we fence to 5. He took the first point easily. Once I would have folded at that point but I didn't. Instead I took the next point with a clumsy but effective aggressive hit. He stayed ahead till 3-2. I began to hope. We reached 4-3. He countered my attack easily. 4-4. He'd mentioned that he found it hardest to fence me when I rushed him. I rushed him. There was a clash of blades, he went for me and missed. My hit landed. 5-4. I was the weaker fencer but I'd won ... again.

I didn't win great or important fights and I wasn't against the best epeeists in the club. However I've suddenly found that I have the will to win - something I lacked in the past - and it feels good.

At the end of the morning I fenced the small foilist, marvelling at the lightness of the weapon and trying to remember rules about right of way. She has developed an excellent circular parry - apparently she'd spent much of the morning getting it right.

And so I cycled home to see my son and Joe the cat. Joe had brought a dead bird with him - possibly a supplement to breakfast or a small, unappreciated gift.

Finding the floor

"Come round on Wednesday," a friend said, expansively, at the end of Meeting. "We're burning Catholics."

"Sorry, I can't make it," I responded. "I'm stabbing people."

Perhaps it's as well there weren't any newcomers. People don't expect Quakers to talk like that. But the Friends who were present understood that they were being invited to a fireworks party with bonfire and that I couldn't go because I was going fencing. Some Quakers are a bit doubtful about my enthusiasm for fencing but fortunately they're a tolerant, accepting lot.

I forgot about the fireworks until I got home, when anxiety about Joe the cat hit me. Being a cat-owner keeps landing me with unanticipated responsibilities. Perhaps I couldn't go fencing at all, I thought. My son was heading to the display at his former primary school and I couldn't leave a fearful cat alone in the hosue.

Fortunately Joe deosn't scare easily. He curled up in the sink, which would be his favourite place if it weren't for the water. He likes the water and wants to play with it ... if only it weren't so wet.

I cycled through the damp, dark mist to the accompaniment of occasional pops and thuds. Tethering my bike, I headed to the hall - the big hall. It's been closed since July for work on the floor, leaving us to fence in the small hall, squash courts and corridors. But now the floor is fresh and shiny. The walls have been painted too. They are in rather unfortunate shades of bright green, which clash with the new mustard-green paintwork elsewhere. It's a shame the leisure centre didn't consult the fencers on suitable colours for a salle. We'd probably have gone with cream, black and gold. I expect the leisure centre found a helpful discount on green paint.

But the sound was the real surprise. I'd forgotten how delightful it is to hear the clash of blades and the cries and grunts of sabreurs. (I don't know why sabreurs make such a noise when fencing but they always do.) The beginners were still working at one end of the hall and there were three pistes next to the curtain that divides fencers from badminton-players. There must have been nearly fifty fencers there, some fencing steam and some waiting for a piste or space.

There were only three other epeeists and I fenced them all. My single victory over the dancer had given me new confidence and, when we fenced again, I managed far more hits than usual. We weren't scoring but I reckoned I managed three quarters as many hits as he did. More importantly, it felt like a proper bout and I reckoned that perhaps I'd have a chance of beating the dancer on another occasion, with a bit of luck.

I had a much harder time against the doc. His speed and light hits to my arm remained disconcerting. I managed a few hits but wondered, at times, if he was letting me hit him. However he often appears to open his arm to attack only to deceive my blade, so it was hard to tell. I also fenced the brunette again. She may be new to epee but she's an accurate left-hander with a long reach. At first I was as nonplussed as when I first fenced her. I would reach and try to angle but she would always get in first. It dawned on me that the only way I could hit her was by taking her blade. It didn't always work but, as I tried, I began to even up the contest.

I realise I've been slipping into my old habits of mirroring my opponents' techniques - or just repeating attacks in the hope they work. Fencing twice a weeks is giving me the confidence to work more on different strategies for different opponents.

But I'm also inspired by the return to the big hall. It offers opportunities for conversation too. I fell into conversation with a couple of sabreuses about the freedom fencing offers us. The club gives us an opportunity to be ourselves, we agreed - we don't have to modify our behaviour for other people. And we get to stab people too.

I heard the same from the mother of a young foilist. He's slightly autistic and needs clarity and repetition so that he can advance. His mother was full of praise for the club and the coaches - she's found an environment where her son can feel secure and be accepted as he is. Once again, I was glad to be a member of my fencing club.

All the same, I left early, just in case Joe the cat was worried. He wasn't.

ups, downs and in-betweens

I've been too busy to blog. I even had to miss a Saturday morning fencing session for work. But apart from that, I've continued fencing.

It's hard to force myself out of bed on Saturday mornings, expecially when there's frost in the air. But Joe the cat responds to the ringing of the alarm, first by expecting cuddles and then by walking around the pillow in a display of restlessness. He has a point. On Saturdays I get up two hours later than on weekdays and squabbling birds outside the window remind Joe of breakfast. And he hasn't yet worked out how to open his own pouches of Whiskas.

For the first hour or so of Saturdays I move in slow motion. I contemplate tasks like unloading the dishwasher, then sit at the computer to read the papers while eating muesli and drinking coffee. Sometimes the chef comes on-line to ask if I'm fencing. I have to force myself to get untether the bike, mount it and wobble unsteadily towards the cycle track. I'm getting better at balancing the sword bag but I'm still unsteady as I clear the sleeping policemen on the drive to the leisure centre.

Attendance at Saturday fencing still hasn't made it into double figures. Too many people work, or stay in bed, or spend time with their families. And of course some fencers do other sports or roam the country in search of other fencers to attack. I hope Saturday fencing keeps going - I love it.

When I fence on a weekday evening I arrive tired and depart tired and bruised. There's a warm-up and some fencing but there's also a lot of waiting around. Some of the the waiting time is occupied with conversation but there are also uncomfortable moments in which I wonder whether I'm too old and unfit to continue fencing. That's when the tiredness is worst. Some evenings, when my co-ordination's worse than usual, the string of defeats gets to me.

My choices are simple: perservere or give up. And I'm not giving up just because my upper arm is black with bruises. I need to learn a better parry and a faster attack. Saturday mornings, with their mixture of coaching and free fencing, are ideal. And for two hours on Saturday mornings I get as much fencing as I wish. I may arrive tired but within a few minutes I'm flooded by energy and filled with enthusiasm. Cycling home, I find myself cheered and optimistic.

I don't know if it's doing me any good, but I've had a couple of surprising results. I fenced the club president last week, during an evening session when attendance was down. Epee is the president's third weapon and he's ten years older than me. But he's a left-hander, still fences in international veterans competitions in foil and sabre, and, when I started fencing, was the club's master-at-arms and indisputed champion of the one-hit epee. I'm usually pleased if I get one or two hits against his fifteen.

The president wasn't fencing as he would in a competition but his swift, light hits to the arm came out of nowhere, registering hits that I hardly felt. I began by trying to remember what coaches had advised, but that leads to slow, deliberate fencing - and pauses in which an opponent finds it easy to land a hit. I dispensed with analysis and focussed on watching for opportunities. And I began to see them. I never quite drew equal but I was in the bout. At about 12-8, I set myelf an ambition: a score in double figures. When I lost 15-10, it felt like a triumph. It almost compensated by the easy way in which the brunette had beaten me the week before.

I still wasn't expecting to win. Last Saturday I was beaten by all the other fencers, as usual, though one of the coaches encouraged me to be aggressive. He'd given me a good tip in the past: to avoid fancy fencing and go straight for the hit. I used it on him as he advanced and was delighted when he walked onto my blade.

The dancer arrived slightly late. He'd been away so was out of practice. I expected him to focus on sabre - his favourite weapon. He has the bounce and speed of a sabreur. But he began by drawing his epee from his case. When I watched him fence the coach I reckoned he'd be hard to hit with all that speed, energy and accuracy. "Good calves," I noticed, admiringly. Men who fence often have excellent legs - the kind admired by Georgette Heyer's heroines.

The dancer was hard to hit. The first time we fenced, he beat me by miles. Later in the morning, I suggested another bout. He agreed and attacked with his usual speed. But something was going wrong for him - he wasn't quite attaching his blade and was missing targets by a fraction, the way I often do. Suddenly we were level at 2-2. I began to attack. It wasn't pretty or elegant - more a matter of forcing my blade through towards his chest. I found myself a couple of points ahead. I kept waiting for him to pull back and overtake me. But a voice in my head said I must take advantage of the opportunity and, as I stayed on the attack, I saw him hesitate. I reached 12-3 and lost confidence. He took a point, and another. I realised that I needed to keep going, fast. The score was 12-5 to me but, if I hesitated, he could still catch up and overtake me. I needed to believe I could win and attack.

I attacked ... and attacked. I could see him surrendering though I was two points short of 15. I attacked again, forcing my way past his guard - but he hardly defended. I won, 15-5. He may have planned to give me a chance but, if he did, I took it. I didn't pound the air with my clenched fist when the bout finished but only because I thought the customary handshake more generous and polite.

Five minutes after the bout was over, the dancer challenged me again. This time the scores were reversed. But I had achieved my victory.



It may, of course, be my last win ever.

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.

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.

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.