repeating myself

It's getting hard to find anything new to say about fencing. Bearing in mind my doctor's advice about sticking to "low-impact exercise," I've been hesitant about fencing for too long on club evenings. So I'm not merely a once-a-week fencer - I'm a fencer who doesn't fence that much when I get there. I tend to fence everyone who turns up to do epée, chat a bit and go home for an early night. I probably get as much exercise from the walk there and back (three miles in total) as I do from fencing.

The only aim I can have is to maintain my fencing at its current, low level. There are worse things than this. When I stop fencing for a while, my skills deteriorate and my sword no longer sits easily in my hand. At least I still get the occasional hit. But there's not much to report on a blog.

Still, it's good to see the new beginners. And it was fun to take part in the one-hit epée (for an Easter egg trophy) last week. There was the usual mix of levels, ages, sizes and fencing styles as the epéeists were joined by foilists and sabreurs.

We began in two pools of seven but then late-comers arrived and wanted to join in. Our pool expanded to nine. As usual, most of the time was spent in wiring up, sharing equipment and testing weapons. And there were some unexpected results with two good sabreurs unable to reach the final fence-off after a couple of doubles (scored as a double defeat).

At the beginning, facing good fencers, I did what I could to defend and stay out of reach but lacked the aggression that might just have achieved a lucky hit. I began to realise this and at least managed a lengthy, attacking bout against a tall fencer who had barely fenced epée before but was on a winning streak. He not only beat me but was one of the two from the pool to qualify for the semi-final.

I noticed that an excellent young foilist who made the semi-finals last year had been unlucky in her first bouts - and it seemed to have affected her confidence. She's a dangerous left-hander who I've faced without success in one-hit and in club competitions. As I wired up to face her I could see her uncertainty. When the referee said "Play," she seemed to pause for a moment. I didn't - I charged forward, clumsily but as fast as I could, and made the hit a moment before she reacted.

For a moment I was delighted - it was my first hit after a run of defeats and not one I'd expected. But then I saw the disappointment on my opponent's face and felt sorry. I tried to say something encouraging but she plainly felt awful. She hadn't merely been beaten by a weaker fencer - I'm old enough to be her grandmother.

In the end, I managed two hits out of eight - not good but not as bad as I'd feared. I was sorry that the Easter egg went to a sabreur this year but at least there were small creme eggs for all competitors. And, whatever my doctor advises, I don't think my back is getting any worse because of the fencing.

killer heels and the victory of ice

It's March tomorrow and the chef (still in Paris) reminds me that I haven't added to this blog all year. I blame the snow, the ice, demands of work and myself. England never expects real weather - that's why it's so often a subject of conversation.

But there was snow before Christmas, snow after Christmas, more snow, then more snow, and yet more snow may be on the way. I like snow but the cold and ice were wearing. I began to wish I hadn't put off the extravagance of double glazing and loft insulation, just because I had other bills to pay.

I was glad to be offered a lift to the fencing club dinner, especially since I wasn't sure about walking more than a few yards in my new (to me) shoes. The rules for the dinner said "cocktail dresses or dinner jackets." I possess neither. However one of the local charity shops had a dress that would do and I was glad to think of profits reaching the British Heart Foundation. The problem of matching shoes remained - until I remembered the elegant shoes my daughter bought on eBay which she'd attempted to sell me when she discovered they didn't fit. I decided to teeter elegantly - but the shoes didn't seem quite right for snow on ice.

Emerging tentatively from the car, I found the shoes more efficient than I'd expected. The sharp heels stabbed through the ice and I seemed surprisingly more secure than in the walking boots I'd been using for daytime excursions. Even at the end of the meal, after a glass or three of wine, I had few problems in crossing the icy pavement.

The following week, I left the house a little late on my way to work. I'd glanced out of the window on snowless roads and pavements but wore my walking boots just in case. Sturdy shoes are a wise precaution in these days. I took a few steps outdoors then slid, heavily, on my behind. A pain darted from my spine across my waist. The postman saw - or heard my scream - and came to help. "It's the black ice," he told me.

I looked again. Pavements and roads were shiny with a thin, lethal layer of ice.

Somehow I got up and, despite the pain, continued on my journey. After twenty minutes of careful sliding, I attempted to cross the railway bridge. The slope defeated me. Again I needed help. A couple of passers by attempted to aid my journey. The three of us linked arms, took a step, and slid backwards downhill together. The bridge was impossible and I worked out a detour involving departure from the nearer platform.

I fenced in the evening, despite the pain. I wasn't the only fencer to have slipped on the black ice. I felt lucky - Casualty had been full and the police occupied with collisions. I went on fencing - but carefully. I found cycling tricky and took taxis. The pain didn't go away.

It took me two weeks to go to the doctor and several days after that to get to the x-ray department. When the results came through, I had to see the doctor again, though they weren't labelled urgent. I'm not quite sure of the diagnosis though it included terms like "compression fracture" and "damaged vertebra." No-one's quite sure when the damage was done - some of it might have happened in my fall from the loft a couple of years ago.

The doctor recommended "low impact exercise." "Not swimming," he said, explaining that most people bend the spine doing breaststroke and that this wouldn't be good for me. He gave me a sheet of exercises. I've tried them - they would normally be simple but just now they hurt quite as much as the original fall, so I've given up.

I asked the doctor about fencing. "It's only once a week," I said, with my most persuasive and encouraging smile. "I'm not very good at it and I don't do that much." I took his smile for assent.

He then began one of those sentences which includes the words "considering your age." They're never good news. He's referred me for further tests for osteoporosis. But he doesn't think it likely. Nor do I. I've looked at the websites and the only indication I've got is a fracture - young people have those too.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying fencing even though I'm not doing as much as usual. I don't know whether I'll still be fencing this time next year. But I hope to be there when the chef finally returns from Paris this autumn, even if her current level of fitness means I'm unlikely to beat her.

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.

where's the horse?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it's the one-hit epee tonight.

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

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


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