waterbottles and library books

If there are any readers left out there after my long absence, I apologise. I'm back. I shall try to post more frequently.

When New Year arrived, I contemplated giving up fencing. I was feeling my age. Compared with some veteran fencers I know, I was feeling much more than my age. I expect this to be a regular theme now. I have been fencing for several years and I doubt I can get faster. I don't learn as quickly as I did when I was young - and I was never quick at grasping physical manoeuvres.

I went to the club Christmas dinner. It was an enjoyable event. A splendidly large and shiny sword was presented to the Mistress-at-Arms - a new trophy since it's new to have several women competing in all three weapons. All the time I was thinking "This might be my last fencing occasion." I wasn't sure I had the energy or determination any more.

The following week saw me spending three hours in a long, tedious and not entirely pleasant meeting at work. It was hours till the first fencing club evening of the year. As I looked at my colleagues and listened to their words I was struck with the thought, "I want to stab someone." Since duels in the workplace are almost certainly against health and safety rules (and I didn't even have my epée with me) I thought it best to head to fencing. Just to be on the safe side, I signed up for another term.

My fencing has been erratic, even by my standards. Every so often I land a series of hits that please me - or even reach the score that is my secret target. I've had two or three one-to-one coaching sessions - one when I was so tired I could take nothing in and simply gave way to laughter at my own incompetence but at other times I've made some slight progress which pleases me.

Two coaches have attempted to instruct me in the ceding parry (which I persist in thinking of as the "seeding parry"). It's a splendidly strategic piece of swordplay in which the fencer appears to give in to an opponent's strength before suddenly changing the direction of the blade and launching an unexpected attack. On a good day, I can manage it in slow motion two times out of three. I don't think this is quite good enough to try using it at full speed in a bout but it's good to know how it works and perhaps, one day, the opportunity to use it will present itself. Meanwhile I continue to work on stance, lunges, point control - all the basics that drift if I don't keep thinking about them.

Work is, for me as for many people, a perpetual source of anxiety. In the current climate of cuts most people know that their jobs are at risk, whether directly or indirectly. Coming home after a particularly tough day, I consoled myself with the prospect of an evening's consensual stabbing. I got as far as changing into my breeches when I was presented with a disaster - my water bottle, which had spent the week in my back-pack with the rest of my kit, had leaked. My breeches weren't just damp - they were sodden. Nonetheless, I tried struggling into them in the hope that no-one would notice. They might, I reasoned, dry off as I cycled to the leisure centre.

This attempt at self-deception didn't last long. If I wore the wet breeches I would be dripping over the leisure centre floor. I wondered idly whether it would be safe when wired up for electric fencing but couldn't make up my mind. I struggled out of the breeches and laid them on the radiator in the vain hope that they'd dry in ten or fifteen minutes. They didn't. Later inspection of my water bottle showed that the thread on the screw top had perished in some way - it was no longer possible to tighten it.

I made up for my disappointment in fantasy fencing. Shocked by the current threats to public libraries, which have been my refuge and source of inspiration since childhood, I rejoined the local library and took part in the national Save Libraries day. Looking for books to borrow, I chanced on Isabel Allende's novel Zorro. I remembered thinking I'd like to read it when it came out - I've enjoyed other novels by Allende - but never got round to it. It's my current choice of bedtime reading and highly enjoyable, if a little sketchy on the finer details of fencing technique.

I also came across the best use of fencing in an advertisement. It helps that it includes Zinedine Zidane. Some people have suggested that it isn't really Zidane fencing or even that there's a switch from epée to sabre in the middle of the sequence. I refuse to believe any of it. Why wouldn't Zidane take up fencing now that he's retired from football? - and of course he'd be an epéeist.



Thrilled by all this fantasy fencing, I returned to the fencing club with renewed vigour - and a new water bottle. I bought it in a sale immediately after our local Save Libraries event, which attracted 400 people in addition to the 300-400 regular Saturday morning users - not bad for a suburban public library. I haven't seen a library so crowded since the days when I was sadly dependent on a mobile library which came on wheels and wobbled when anyone entered it.

I must have been over-excited by the prospect of saving libraries as I allowed the chef to persuade me into the purchase of a water bottle with a slightly unsuitable slogan. It seemed funny at the time but on club nights I find I'm hoping no-one will notice it and try to keep it in a position where the delightfully decorated message on the bottle faces the wall.

twilight fencer

I took two weeks off. Off fencing, that is - I still had to work. A bad cold hit me at the wrong time. I'd have had to be a good deal worse to stay home in the daytime. I sneezed, coughed and spluttered over colleagues through the first week but decided that sneezing into a fencing mask would be too unpleasant.

As the sneezing subsided, I convinced myself I was better. I decided it was my responsibility to take the chef to the Goose Fair, said to be the largest and oldest travelling fair in Europe. We encountered its thrills and horrors with courage, even admiring the terrifying puppy which dwelt in the depths of the Maze of Terror - the pup of the Baskervilles, perhaps.

By the end of the day I was more tired than usual and the following week was exhausting. I was also losing my voice. For a second time I missed fencing and chose an early night instead.

It's hard to go back to fencing after two weeks off. I was still tired - too tired to cycle - and felt flabbily unfit. But I felt that, if I didn't fence a little, I'd never go back again.

When I arrived I was able to congratulate a sabreuse who had fenced in the Commonwealth championships and a coach who had reached the last eight in the World Veterans. But there were many absentees. I don't know if there was an outbreak of autumn illnesses or whether the new Age of Austerity was taking effect - many of us are closing in on ourselves and staying home more as though to hug our worries to ourselves. Enthusiasm was low and there was a distinct lack of epéeists. I wondered if the walk had been enough for me. I had done my best. Now I could go home without having to fence.

At this point a coach offered me an epée lesson. I felt slightly feeble but I reckoned the lesson could end at any time if I was inclined. It began badly but gradually the coach's patience helped me focus on my guard while looking for the best moment to attack. I began to keep my arm steady and slide my blade over or under his guard while angling towards wrist and forearm. Perhaps my tiredness was helping me concentrate - there was no space for any non-fencing ideas in my tired brain. My distance seemed slightly better too.

Back in the main hall, I was invited to fence by a strong, helpful opponent - just to ten. "Be aggressive," he told me, as he always does. "I want to see you move fast, make an effort."

I checked my guard - tried to adjust it, and he told me where I was going wrong. That gave me the chance to adjust to fencing a left-hander.

As we began, I realised I had nothing to worry about. I couldn't expect to win the bout but I was going to try my hardest. Once again the tiredness was on my side, letting me concentrate on distance and varied actions. I continued to make silly mistakes - I wish I could bout without occasionally charging onto my opponent's blade - but I was getting unexpected hits, one to the wrist. "Good hit," my opponent said, encouragingly.

He won 10 - 7 but I was fighting till the end. It was probably the best score I'd ever managed against him. "That's the best I've ever seen you fence," he said approvingly and I glowed with pleasure and exhaustion. I still wasn't used to the exertion.

Then the club president invited me to fence. Epée may be his third weapon but on a good day he can beat most club fencers. I prepared to be crushed - but to do my best. All I could do was take quick advantage of his few unforced errors. I managed a couple of hits, one to his foot - and he managed quite a few on me. But there was something wrong with the electrics. Some hits registered, some didn't. We couldn't work out what was wrong and in the end, fed up, we walked away leaving the match incomplete.

"I gave you those points," he teased - at least, I think he was teasing. Then he changed tack. "No - I didn't - you took them. Your blade went right inside my shoe." He mimicked the motion with his own sword, showing how my blade had glided past his ankle.

Was it luck? Probably. Even if I managed, he wasn't fencing with the determination he shows in competition. But I felt I'd done well, considering the time off. I rewarded myself by cadging a lift home.

Ow!

After nearly a fortnight without stabbing anyone, I was happily anticipating my return to fencing. I managed an early night in preparation. Then I woke at half past four and soon realised I couldn't get back to sleep. I headed downstairs for camomile tea and started to surf the net.

I was sitting still at my computer when the pain hit me - a sharp ache just above my hip. At first I couldn't think what had caused it. Then I remembered how awkwardly I'd tranported lemonade and orange juice in a shopping bag on wheels - the bad my children object to and call my "granny bag." (As I point out, I'm old enough to be a great-grandmother, but they don't think that's a good excuse.) "If I can get back to sleep," I told myself, "the pain will go away."

I managed sleep but the pain persisted - not all the time but whenever I moved in certain ways. Tying shoelaces was the worst. Luckily there is no need to tie shoelaces while actually fencing but as the day progressed I began to wonder whether fencing would be possible. Eventually I rang the doctor's surgery just in time to get the last appointment of the day.

The doctor reassured me that it was just a pulled muscle - I had began to worry lest it was something worse - and wrote me a prescription for strong painkillers. I assured him I didn't drive or operate heavy machinery. "How about fencing?" I asked.

The doctor asked me to show what moves would be involved. This seemed a lot sillier than lying on a couch to be poked and prodded but I got to my feet and adopted a fencing stance. It didn't hurt. I made a few fencing moves backwards and forwards and attempted a small lunge. "It's OK," I said in amazement. "No pain."

I assured the doctor that I'd be able to stop if it hurt and he agreed that I could fence. I began to look forward to the evening.

Putting on my breeches and lacing my trainers was excruciating. I realised cycling would be unwise, especially since the pain-killers were going to make me woozy. Although the backpack for my kit was slightly uncomfortable, walking was the best solution.

Once again there was a shortage of epeeists but this time I had the sense to borrow a lamé and ask a couple of foilists for bouts. I warned them about my muscle strain and they helped me in the tricky and painful tasks of doing up the lamé, picking up my mask, and connecting my body wire. I was quite glad to begin with a light weapon, even though I've lost any expertise I ever had. My technique is now, as an opponent said, based entirely on epée. I kept forgetting about establishing right of way and simply tried to hit the smaller target area. To my surprise, I managed a few points.

Then one of my opponents discarded her lamé and borrowed a club epée. We fenced steam scoring, so far as we could tell, double after double. But it felt good, after a day of caution, to be moving up and down the piste with relative ease.

I'd decided early that this would be short evening. But before I left, I had a chance to fence with one of the coaches who didn't know about the muscle-strain. I was beginning to feel relaxed and reckless as the pain-killers kicked in. At first the coach just made me practise technique, though I wasn't too sure what I was doing. Then, seeing I was getting tired, he suggested as usual that we see who was the first to get two hits. It's never been me in the past, however much the coach invites a hit. Perhaps the pills subdued my certainty of defeat. I went for the first hit and caught the coaches arm. On the second point, I parried his attack and managed a chest hit. 2-0 to me.

Then I packed up my kit, heaved my backpack onto my shoulders and limped home.

still fencing

I did continue fencing. For a week, I thought of giving up but it didn't seem right. I thought of two friends I've made through blogging.

There's Beth of Screw Bronze, who loved to fence epee - and was way better than me - who is now fighting a far harder battle as she lives with disability and terminal illness. Beth has been competing in wheelchair races and every yard she achieves is a victory. She sent me a postcard of a woman with a sword; she still thinks of me as a fencer.

Then there's Jim, the Gray Epee, who is still fencing but not nearly as much as he would like. Jim has been hit by the recession and had to tak a job far from family, home and fencing club. He still fences when he can. Again, he's a more dedicated fencer than me. He competes, coaches and gives support to fellow fencers but has had to cut his fencing to the few occasions he can manage.

For me, the alternative to fencing is not fencing. That would be worse. So I've been taking advice from fencing, working harder and doing just a little better.

I asked the teacher of epee classes to take more lessons. He resumed his classes last week. I wasn't too thrilled when he explained that this week's focus would be three types of fleche. The fleche is not a strategy I expect to employ. "It's not running," the coach told me, having seen my first attempt. "You have to fly through the air like an arrow." I know the theory - it's the practice that defeats me. But I tried to fly through the air while parrying the coach's blade and changing the line of engagement. He smiled encouragingly but I don't think he was impressed.

Later I told the foil coach who fences epee about this. He's an excellent teacher - I watch him with the new foilists and they are filled with enthusiastic confidence - but he doesn't teach epee. But when I told him I couldn't fleche he made me hold my sword out, then took it by the blade and pulled me forward. I wasn't exactly flying through the air but I moved forward forcefully and at speed - and without falling over. It was quite different to previous attempts to fleche. "That's a fleche," he said. "That's how I show the foilists." He did it again and I now know what a fleche feels like. I'm still not sure I'll be doing it in bouts but perhaps I can practise a bit on my own, if no-one's looking.

I think over the past three weeks I've been improving again. A few weeks ago the Man man beat me 15-1 without trying. I managed to improve to 15-5 and at the last session I managed 8 hits to his 15, rather to my surprise. OK, he was tired but I landed the hits. Four weeks ago I'd have missed.

I've been enjoying myself too. I'm feeling slightly fitter; I've been swimming twice and even attended a beginners' salsa class run by a colleague to raise money for charity. Salsa was fun but I on't have a great sense of rhythm - I think I'll stick to stabbing people.

Cycling to and from fencing has become a pleasure, except for the week when the sky opened and I was soaked before I reached the leisure centre. Clambering back into my sodden jeans and hoodie was a low point.

The scents of May are exceptionally vivid in this rainy Spring. On my last ride through the night, I suddenly recognized the cloying scent of orange blossom, then the sweet weight of lilac which hung heavy above the cycle track. I prefer the smell of long grass and cow parsley - the lacy flowers line the paths of the water meadows and are now at waist height. Birds scream incessantly with the urgency of Spring. And the other week I caught sight of a darker black crossing the drive just ahead of my bike. "Cat?" I thought at first. But I knew it wasn't a cat. I looked across the meadows to see if I could find it again and the lights picked up its shape, catching its eyes and transforming them to two yellow-green blurs. "Not a cat," I realised, checking the silhouette and registering the sharp ears and nose. The fox and I gazed at each other for a minute or so. Then it turned and merged into the dark of grass and flowers.

arrivals and parries

"An epeeist, obviously," I declared, looking at the new arrival.

"Sabre, sabre, sabre," chorussed the sabreurs.

"She'd better start with foil," a more thoughtful fencer suggested.

The new arrival didn't state her opinion. She didn't even open her eyes. At ten days, weighing just over six pounds, the future fencer slept in her father's arms. In her small pink dress and long white socks she wasn't really dressed for combad. As blades clashed in the packed hall, the new arrival was passed from fencer to fencer. Foilists and sabreurs discarded their lames so that the rough metallic surface wouldn't scratch her. Her mother, more familiar with fencers than motherhood, enjoyed the chance for conversation, I think.

It was a while before I dragged myself away to the epee class. I was enjoying the sight of so small and contented a human being. But epee called.

The usual coach was away so one of the most experienced coaches took over. He led us through a return to basics: hitting to wrist, forearm and body - first from standing, then with movement and then including a parry. My accuracy and recall wavered as I tried to include a parry to quarte before hitting the chest. How could I miss so large a target? I wondered. My blade began to glide over the forearm instead of attaching. The coach took me through it again and again until, finally, I managed to land all my hits in sequence.

There's something reassuring about getting something right, even if it's simple and even when I've had a great deal of practice. I moved on to a couple of bouts - and for once I wasn't feeling tired.

I wasn't sure I'd learnt anything in the last weeks of coaching. The problem didn't lie with the coach but with my own exhaustion - how could I have taken anything in? But I was cheered by a lucky wrist-hit, in which, without premeditation or much control, I angled my blade that it slid down to graze my opponent's guard. And I found myself moving better than for a while and - in combat - putting the new parries into practice.

My attempt at a parry in seconde wasn't graceful but it took my opponent by surprise. This gave me a chance to move my blade back up and land a chest hit. Further encouraged by my success, I began to vary my tactics. My opponent was a better and more experienced fencer than me - he'd taught me in my early days of epee when no coaches were available - but although he landed more hits than me, I was doing far better than usual. I accelerated forward with a circular parry and landed a hit. Then I started retreating to see if I could catch him as he attacked. I couldn't - at least, not the first time, but the second time I tried it the box showed a double. I tried the parry in seconde again - and again scored a hit. It was feeling good.

I was tired at the end of the evening - properly tired, with the kind of physical exhaustion that leads to a good night's sleep. As for the new arrival, she left when I did, having slept through everything.

"run forward as fast as you can and keep attacking"

My evening of fencing began and ended with a crime.

I'm usually a law-abiding individual though lately so many laws have been passed in Britain that it's probably impossible to avoid committing a couple of cimes a day. However I prefer to break laws by accident or for ethical reasons rather than for my own benefit. But I have to admit that, when I last went fencing, I did break the law.

I was looking forward to the epee class. For the first time in weeks I wasn't entirely exhausted. I was worried about work, however, and thought that a bit of stabbing was just what I needed. It was a bit of a rush but I got my kit together, slung my swords over my should and prepared to mount my bike.

I turned on the back light - no problem. I went to turn on the front light. It wasn't there. There was no time to walk, even if I'd had the energy. There wasn't even time to wait for a cab. I thought about the route. There's a short stretch of road - a few yards - before the cycle path begins. The cycle path is well-lit and I'm not sure whether cyclists are compelled to have lights as it's not, strictly speaking, a public highway. And then there's the driveway to the leisure centre. I don't know if it's a public highway or not. I know I can walk on it legally - but I never feel safe doing that as there's no pavement. I looked at my legs. They were bright in white breeches and socks. I decided I was probably sufficiently vsisible. I got on my bike and cycled all the way.

As I arrived in the leisure centre car park, a woman kindly pointed out that my front light wasn't on. I explained my dilemma and apologised. She said my back light wasn't very bright either. I suppose it isn't. I apologised about that too. Then I went to the epee class.

We began with parries. I felt more confident than usual, probably because they were relatively easy: direct parry, circular parry, semi-circular parry. It was like doing foil again except that, as epeeists, we were expected to complete each parry by landing a hit.

The coach was encouraging. I watched the other epeeists take turns. We're not really the beginners' group that was planned. We'd been joined by an epeeist who gave mesome of my first lessons in the weapon. Every epeeist in the club joins the beginners' epee class from time to time - and the coach is a sabreur. All the same, we're learning.

Sometimes we're puzzled about what is required. I was uncertain about a long list of instructions which included the sinister words "reprise" and "redouble." After he'd returned from what looked like a longish bout, I asked my former epee teacher what the coach required. "Just run forward as fast as you can and keep attacking," he replied. I had a few goes and eventually I managed to respond to everything the coach did with an attack of my own. It wasn't great.

I knew I had to leave early - I had a very early start at work the following day. But I managed a few hits against the other (young) woman in the ill-named "beginners" group. She really is a beginner at epee, though an excellent foilist and - dangerously - a left-hander. Her experience in foil gave me a slight advantage since she still tends to pause after parries as though establishing right of way. It was only a knockabout but for once I managed to land a few more hits than she did. Then I packed my kit, mounted my bike and headed - illegally - home.

It's possible that my illegal cycling covered no more than 15 yards if, as I hope, the cycle path and drive-way don't count as public highway. It still wasn't a good idea. I've found my front bike-light now - evidently it fell off when I last unloaded my bicycle basket. But the woman at the leisure centre was right - neither light is very strong. Perhaps I should buy another set of lights .... or would that be bad for the planet?

blood ....!

Too much of fencing was a blur of tiredness. I knew I was too tired but I also knew the effect of a week off fencing. Anyway, I'd been tired for weeks - and I was determined to follow the epee course.

There were only three of us. The doc and the Man man seemed filled with energy and concentration. My mind wandered. The coach demonstrated a parry in seconde - "a strong parry", he said. I waved my epee around trying the move in mid-air. It seemed manageable.I tried it against the coach. Definitely a strong parry, and one I hadn't used before.

Things got harder with the next sequence which involved hitting the wrist, moving backwards and then parrying to another hit. I couldn't do it. And things got worse as we lunged and reprised at speed down the piste. At least, the doc and the Man man were speedy - I achieved a moderately paced shuffle with the occasional bend of the knees. After some encouragement, I repeated the procedure while waving my sword about. I wasn't sure quite what I was supposed to do with it but some kind of energetic display seemed to be required. In the one-hit epee at the end I achieved a surprising hit on the Man man, possibly because, given my previous incompetence, he didn't expect me to move faster than a slug.

I meant to go home them but the Man man offered to fence me on the electric piste. I knew it was a bad idea even as I said yes. His second hit was a textbook example of how to glide down an opponent's blade to land a hit. He landed it hard on the inside of my elbow, sliding his blade at an angle that reached just below my plastron. He looked shaken. "Are you OK?" he asked. It seemed that stoicism was required - and no blood was actually leaking through my jacket.

I tried to look brave and continued. Two more points, and he landed another hit in the same place. We continued. He hit me again and again. I tried to fight back and managed a couple of hits including one on his big toe. I tried to repeat the feat and hit the floor a few times. At last I gave up. We shook hands and I began to remove my kit. It was still early but the tiredness was winning.

Slowly I discarded my jacket, coiled my bodywire and put it with the protectors and glove in my mask.. I eased my plastron over my stiffening right arm. As I thought, there was blood - but not much. Just a graze - painful when touched and slightly swollen. I showed off my wound - it was the nearest I had to proof that I was a proper fencer. I'm not sure anything I did that night really counted as fencing. Then I put on my hoodie and jacket, slung my sword and rucksack onto my back and cycled off into the dark.

slow motion parries

"There are nine parries in epee," the coach began, and proceeded to demonstrate them all. After the first three, I was lost. These weren't simple or circular parries but the various position in which an epeeist could hold back the advance of an opponent. "When would I use that?" doc wondered as the coach demonstrated a particularly high parry. "I'd use it against a tall opponent - like you," the coach responded.

We moved on to a complicated parry involving a beat against the blade to draw the attack followed by a rapid corkscrew movement which was supposed to circle the blade while advancing, bind it, hold it out of the way and slide in for a hit. I think it may have been called a progressive covered parry but I was concentrating so hard on the movement that there was no space in my brain for what it was called. I stood with the brunette watching the doc and the Man man try the parry. They didn't seem to find it that easy but I assumed that the coach was making things hard for them. Then it was my turn to fail.

I think the coach was getting a little despondent by then. He tried to encourage us with some simple tests. But we couldn't demonstrate nine parries nor explain the difference between reprise and remise. So we went back to a simple warm-up - moving up and down the piste and hitting to wrist. Then the coach added a leather chap - the kind that cowboys wear - so that we could hit to his leg as well. After the inevitable joke about horses and sabreurs, we managed rather better. This was a simpler and more familiar task. And after that the progressive covered parry - or whatever it was called - seemed to work rather better. At any rate, I managed it in slow motion, though I don't think that will be particularly helpful in a real bout.

We finished with a round of one-hit epee and then the brunette and I, too tired to wait for an electric piste, persuaded another coach to ref while we fenced steam to five. The brunette has the advantage of height and being a left-hander (and being younger than me) but I've been fencing longer. I'm never quite sure how reliable a ref can be when epeeists fence steam so I'm not entirely convinced I won 5-4. Still, the evenness of the bout was a pleasure. But I wish I weren't so tired in the evenings. It seems a shame to leave before the fencing has finished - but it would be a bigger shame to fall off my bike on the way home.

missing the moment

"It's - - - ," the coach said.

I didn't catch the word and wouldn't have understood it anyway.

"That's Polish," he explained. "In French it's 'a propos.' In English it's - something like - the moment. You have to find the moment and take it."

The coach was explaining the remise which was. he said, at the heart of epee. He'd already described epee as a real duelling weapon with such enthusiasm he warmed us all. We almost forgot that his chief loyalty was to sabre. We'd warmed up with hits to the forearm while moving, then practised taking the blade and binding in it in a counter-attack. (There's not much defence in epee. Even retreats are conducted with an arm outstretched, blade to lead ready for the slightest chance to dart forward for the hit.) But the remise is trickier. Instead of sticking close to the opponent's blade, it is, as our coach explained it, a matter of looking for the split second when an opening appears, changing the line of attack from a standing position, and going for the hit.

I couldn't get it. I was too slow. The moment was too brief - I needed closer to a minute. Finally I managed a couple of clumsy hits in a different line, well aware that the coach was in slow motion.

Worse followed. We were to attack, redouble, redouble and hit - at speed. This meant a succession of lunges - reprise after reprise - down the length of the piste. I don't achieve beautiful low lunges and I'm not fast at moving in and out of a lunge. There were four of us. Two have been fencing epee longer than I've been fencing any weapon and the third is a young, graceful, experienced foilist looking to add another weapon. They sped down the piste, moving in and out of lunges till, with the final stretch at the end of the piste, they landed their hits. Then it was my turn.

I lumbered up and down, with the shallowest lunges I dared, fearing my right knee would give way as I tried to recover.but determined, at least, to reach the end of the piste without falling over. It wasn't much of ambition but at least I stayed upright and hurled my blade roughly in the direction of my waiting coach. Not surprisingly, he hit me first.

And then the coaching session was near its end and the coach was promising more difficult tasks in the future. We ended with a quick round of one hit epee. To my surprise, I managed a single hit - on the Man man - and then it was over.

The foilist donned her lame and joined the historian on the piste. (His appearance as a foilist was startling but it's better for his injured elbow.) There was a queue for the electric pistes and the hall was still crowded. I invited the doc to a quick steam bout, assuring him it could end when the Man man secured a box. I just wanted some real fencing before going home. The bout was brief but pleasing.

Then, still tired, I left the hall. Long days at work are still exhausting me. The cold hit me as I mounted my bike. I ascribed it to the tiredness until I got home and tried to open the wheelie bin. The lid had frozen shut. The next day, it was warmer. It snowed again.

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.

"really cool"

I'm becoming a twice-a-week fencer - or, at least, a three-times-a-fortnight fencer. I don't know how long it will last.

One of the coaches at the club has set up Saturday morning sessions at the local leisure centre. I shan't be able to go every week - sometimes I work, sometimes (too rarely) I visit my parents and sometimes there are simply other things to do. But this week I got on my bike at just after 9.00 in the morning, balanced by sword-bag against the basket and set off in daylight.

It was the first Saturday morning session and I was a bit nervous. I thought it might be all the best fencers in the club ... and me. I'd forgotten that there was a competition fairly near - and I think the bad weather had left people tired and longing for a lie-in. There were six of us - three women and three men. All the men were coaches (though only one was officially coaching for the session) and we'd all fenced one another before.

We had one electric piste. There was space for the rest of us to fence steam - and we could do all the fencing we wished. I started with epee and was soon getting helpful tips as well as much-needed practice. My movement and grip were better than usual and I found I was far more alert in the morning than at evening sessions.

I began with epee. Later I fenced foil against the gardener, a foilist who began when I did. Back in the days when I did foil, I frequently found myself fencing the gardener. We were so used to one another that we'd frequently make identical attacks at the same moment. She was more skilful than me, however, and her neat parries and counter-attacks would always bring her victory. It was comfortable to return to fencing her and to discover that her practice in foil and my experience in epee made the fight more varied. It was only a knock-around - we didn't have a ref or try to debate right of way but I think, if we had, she would have won.

Meanwhile the blonde, who a few weeks earlier had sworn undying loyalty to foil, decided that, after all, she'd like a go at sabre. As soon as she picked up the weapon, her eyes shone. She glowed from the thrill of her first lesson - evidently she's found her true weapon and it isn't foil.

I'm not going to be seduced - I know I'm an epeeist. But every so often I like to try something a bit different and it's nearly a year since I last tried sabre. So when a coach (the villain) asked if I would like a short lesson in any weapon, I decided to do some more beginner's sabre. It's certainly not for me, which is just as well since it takes more speed and money than I can manage. But occasional sessions are certainly fun and help me appreciate why the sabreurs enjoy it. Not that I'm deserting epee.

By the end of the session I felt fit and joyful. Cycling home seemed easy in the sudden sunlight.

The fencing was terrific - two hours with as much fencing as I wanted, in all three weapons. There were useful tips and I felt I was improving from the gentle coaching provided. I fenced a range of opponents.

But the highlight of the session came when I was fencing epee and glance towards the door. A group of Chinese students stood at the door of the hall, taking pictures of us on their mobile phones. I spoke to one who looked at my sword with admiration. "Fencing .... that's really cool," she said.

I followed enough of the Olympics to know that the standard of fencing in China is pretty high - much higher than in our club. But I like to fantasise about people in China receiving the photos on their mobile phones and saying, admiringly, "That's really cool."

It's probably just as well I didn't see the photos.

trepidation

After last week's experience I was hesitant about returning to fencing.

It had been a difficult week and, gently as the dentist was, she confirmed that I had, as she put it "a fractured tooth". It's not bad, which is just as well as I have to wait two weeks for treatment.

Getting to the dentist was quite a trial. I decided to cycle, forgetting that my dentist resides close to the summit of a mountain peak in the vertiginous ranges of South Nottinghamshire - or, as the chef put it, on a slight incline. I found I couldn't keep going for the whole of the slope and got off to push my bike, uncomfortably aware of the young, energetic and, I assumed, contemptuous students swirling about me.

I got lost on my way to the surgery and found myself surrounded by the young. Even the dentist seemed no more than twelve, though I'll concede she may have been fifteen. She was very gentle and seemed pretty good at her job despite her lack of years.

At least cycling downhill was exciting - and I managed to avoid an over-enthusiastic articulated lorry as I swerved out onto the roundabout to take the quick, main route home.

Having faced the dentist, I shoud have had no qualms about fencing. But my jaw still ached and I didn't want another run of mask hits. For the first time, I was nervous about being hurt.

I've been bruised and even cut before and it hasn't worried me much. But those repeated blows to the mask unnerved me. The chef, communicating by i.m. from Paris, gave me advice: "You don't have to fence the youth," and "You could always do foil."

Wearily I pulled my jeans over my breeches, clambered onto my bike and cycled off into the night, slightly late. My swords clanged against the bicycle basket. I felt wimpish and stupid but my confidence returned as I gained speed in the cool air. By the time I'd chained my bike at the leisure centre I'd made a decision. I wouldn't fence the youth. And I'd consider doing foil.

I confessed my nervousness, with some embarrassment. The doc said it was like riding a bike - that, if you fell off, you must get on again at once. I saluted and, clumsily as usual, pulled on my mask.

I didn't have any good bouts at epee. However, I found I was moving better against the doc - not just attacking, which is what I usually do when I lack confidence, but trying to vary speed and tactics. I even got a few decent arm-hits. Later I fenced the Man man. He was, I assume, slowing down and giving me a chance, letting me get ahead and then overtaking me. I was grateful, I think. At least I took advantage of the chances so that he only beat me 15-12.

Things were slightly uneasy between me and the youth. He'd meant well, after all. I just didn't want to fence him. So when I found myself talking to one of the intermediate fencers - a young woman who started foil a year ago, I suggested a bout. We fenced a couple of points and then she was called for some coaching. Then the coach agreed to referee a bout between us.

I assumed I would lose. My opponent is younger and had been tough to fence when she tried epee. She's fierce and determined, using strength and speed. And it's a while since I've handled a foil. I did a quick mental check-list: remember to parry, straighten the arm fast, show you've established right of way. Then I picked up my foil, saluted, put on my mask and prepared to be beaten.

About five hits into the bout, I realised I could win. I'm not sure what it was - I think that the new tactics she'd learnt were making her pause, infinitesimally, before she put them into action. And once I was ahead she was cross with herself and uncertain.

The coach called encouragement and advice to her - then apologised that, as a ref, he shouldn't do it. But it seemed fine to me. I was the more experienced fencer and I was ahead.

I didn't want to be brutal or overly aggressive but I wanted to win. One hit I landed on her collar-bone hurt her. I paused and apologised. The coach pointed out that I was fencing, as usual, with my electric foil (the only one I have) while she had a practice foil with rubber button. I don't think she was badly hurt but she probably took a bruise. As an epeeist I expect 6-12 bruises a week but foilists aren't used to that.

The bout continued. I was fencing better than usual and she was fencing worse. I won 15-9.

Next week, my opponent won't pause when she uses new tactics, and I'm unlikely to fence so well. But it was nice to win a bout for a change.

"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.

the villain laughed ....

I left work as early as I could to be sure of reaching fencing on time. But all the trains were halted and, when they started running again, the company chose to ignore the anxious passengers for my small, local station. Every other possible destination was served but, with we had to wait an hour and a half. There was a brief, hopeful interlude inwhich we were told to get on a train. We settled in our seats but it turned out that the interlude had been provided merely for entertainment and exercise. After five minutes of sitting comfortably and waiting for the train to move, we were told to get off again because it had been cancelled.

I eventually arrived home, hungry and thirsty, less than an hour before fencing was due to start. I urged the teenagers to feed themselves, grabbed a pasty and then sat down for what was meant to be a minute or two. The minutes passed.

Suddenly I noticed the clock. I would have to cycle - I had no choice. The only choice I had was what to wear. I could cycle in white breeches and glow in the dark or attempt to wear jeans over my breeches. I've never tried to wear jeans over breeches before - I wasn't convinced they would fit. To my surprise, they did although the combination felt bulky and awkward. I clambered onto my bike, remembeing how to balance the sword bag under the basket, regretting that the chef, en route for Paris, wouldn't be there to laugh at my attempts to dismount.

I sped along and managed to get off the bike with relative ease, only to struggle with the lock at the leisure centre. I usually chain my bike to a metal column. This involves manipulating a coiled bicycle lock that behaves like a recalcitrant snake. The coil was particularly bad-tempered and it took several minutes of struggle to wind the plastic-coated wire through the back wheel of my bike and round the column so that I could - at the tenth attempt - snap the device shut.

I missed footwork practice.

We're still in the small hall with classes taking place in a couple of squash courts. The beginners' class was over by the time I arrived. I caught sight of a work-colleague with his new-to-fencing nephew on the balcony and went up to say hello. It's the first time anyone from work has seen me in fencing kit but this didn't strike me till later. I stayed chatting - and showing off my epee - until two epeeists from the hall below waved to me to come and fence.

Fortunately my colleague had left before my first bout began. As usual, I lacked the brilliance I would like but was glad to be moving much more easily than earlier in the year. I seem to be over the fall from the loft and my heel barely hurts now. All I have to do is gain the speed and quick reactions of someone half my age, and increase precision and accuracy. I know it won't happen but perhaps I can get a little better, especially since epee classes will begin in a few weeks. Unfortunately some of my regular opponents will also receive coaching.

The lack of space makes it hard to get as much fencing as I would wish, and some fencers still haven't returned from holiday. I'm continuing my practice at corridor-fencing which is excellent at encouraging precise bladework. I haven't attempted corridor epee yet - there's an obvious risk to the wall, ceiling or blade. The foil blade is safer because lighter and more flexible but I'm not good at aiming for the torso, let alone establishing right of way.

Club-members are divided on corridor-fencing. Some worry about the health and safety implications - suppose we stabbed a squash player or someone leaving the toilets. We haven't yet. Occasionally non-fencers seem slightly surprised when they chance on a duel but, so far. we've always stopped to let them by. (We tend to giggle as we realise how we must look, which probably spoils the effect.)

I encouraged more people to use the corridor and fenced two opponents there myself. The second was the senior coach. Away from the piste he's a kindly individual who offers lifts and listens to Bach. On the piste he's bloodthirsty with a tendency to laugh when oppponents miss - plainly the villain in any swashbuckling film.

I know what the ending should be. I should fence backwards up a spiral staircase. There should be a moment when I spin the sword from my opponent's grasp. Then I should pause and, with sublime generosity, allow him to pick it up. He attempts by a trick to take advantage of my better nature and that's when I close in for the kill, possibly by swinging from a chandelier.

It didn't happen quite like that. My opponent laughed as he parried, tricked me with feints and leapt back from my blade. I don't even have my usual excuse for failure - he's ten years older than me. I managed to land a couple of hits on the bib of his mask which he generously conceded had, thanks to new fencing rules, been a valid target since 1st September.

Then I struggled back into my jeans only to realise, as I cycled back, that I'd forgotten to turn my bike lights on. It's very hard to reach the rear light of a bicycle when loaded with three swords and a back-pack. But I realised that, having covered my white breeches with dark blue jeans, I was almost invisible. And the streetlights along the half-mile driveway to the leisure centre were all out - perhaps a side-effect of the flooded water-meadows on either side or perhaps an attempt to save the planet.

I twisted uncomfortably on the saddle and somehow managed to turn on the rear light. Life was much easier when the chef was there to help me.

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.

"real fencing ... like in the films"

I don't do sabre. Well, mostly I don't. But I've been flirting with sabre and, I'm afraid, keen to have a go. It means a new set of opponents, a new set of moves and, inevitably, different ways of hitting people and (mostly) being hit. It also means, on a night like tonight, with few epeeists or foilists, there's a lot more fencing.

The other (much younger) woman epeeist and I have been teasing the teenage epeeists for too long. Once we were spotted with sabres in our hands, they stood round us gleefully. Here were two grown up epeeists asking to be hit.

After a few jokes, two young men appointed themselves as our coaches and we were taken off for one-to-one elementary training. We practised dutifully and didn't say "ouch" when the teenagers hit us. Then the teenagers decided we were ready to fence one another. I overheard an argument. "My one's better than your one," my teenage coach began, starting a small dispute. I feared they'd be betting on us soon.

We faced each other, smiling hopefully, legs bent, arms in what we hoped was the en garde position for sabre. "Fence," said one of the teenagers and then, when each waited for the other to make the first move, "Play ... Go."

As we began to tap at each other and try to remember how to riposte after a parry, I caught sight of the eager teenagers and the humour of it all overcame me. I couldn't stop giggling. And my opponent started giggling too. We tapped and parried a bit, still giggling, and the teenagers drifted away.

Two sabreuses, one a veteran with a recent European gold medal and one a teenager with rather less experience, tried to help and encourage us. We still weren't managing speed and brilliance. After a while we returned to epee. "It's time to go back to normal swords," my opponent said. But we'd been corrupted by sabre. It was hard to remember to hit below the belt or use the force needed to attach the blade.

A coach took an interest in our attempts at sabre. He made us practise moves with him, taking turns to move backwards and forwards, parrying above the head. It looked good. It felt good too. As my opponent remarked, "It's real fencing - like in the films."

But we agreed that sabre was too expensive and too hot in summer. There is much more kit and the swords break easily in combat - a snapped sabre-blade flies across the hall every two or three weeks.. One of the teenagers showed off after his sword broke in four places - he thought there should be an award for the most dramatically broken sword.

So we aren't sabreuses. We probably won't try for Mistress-of-Arms in the club championship, though it's tempting. My opponent reckons she has a chance of a "hot date" so I'd be on my own. No woman does all three weapons. In theory I could come last in everything and still be a champion. But there isn't a trophy and I'm not sure there's enough sabre kit to borrow. And I think it would be more of a joke than a contest. But it might be fun ... I might even learn something. I could take on the entire club ...