The snail's revenge

Blogging stopped for a while but fencing continued. I discovered that fencing while tired achieved few immediate results other than bruises. I attempted to learn something that might be called the second counter-attack - or was it the second counter-riposte. I didn't achieve it very well - mostly I waved my sword around in a hopeful way, trying to hit the coach's blade a couple of times before attempting to control it, move it aside and move achieve a hit. The coach looked slightly despairing and his attempts at smiling encouragement were slightly strained.













I managed some sleep before the one-hit epee contest. In a work of fiction, that would lead to sudden brilliance and astounding success. In real life, I'm still unfit, in my mid-50s and, where fencing is concerned, a slow learner Moreover, despite being rested, I had developed a nagging headache which was only partly dispersed by paracetemol.

Still, there were undoubted advantages to having slept. I thought more strategically than in previous weeks and worked out some good ways to win points. For example, I usually attack against one fencer so I decided to retreat and invite him to attack me so that I could use some of the new parries I'd learned. He seemed slightly puzzled, then moved forward, evaded my blade which was probably signalling its readiness to parry, and hit me neatly. Then I launched into a fierce attack on a fencer who points out that I fence him over-defensively. I remembered to get my stance right and moved forward as fast as I could. There were a few clashes of blades before he landed the hit. He assured me I was doing it right and politely didn't add that he was the better fencer.

There were two fencers against whom I thought I stood a chance. But the other woman in the contest, a foilist less than half my age and a beginner at epee, had the speed and agility I lacked and won her point quickly. And fencing one of the coaches - a good fencer but I've occasionally been lucky against him - we both went for a quick hit and scored a double. By the rules of one-hit epee, that's a double defeat.

A new fencer had joined us - an epeeist who had been a good student fencer but hadn't fenced for 21 years. He was causing the experienced fencers some difficulty and I couldn't see that I had any chance of beating him. I wired up feeling curious and prepared for defeat. My only hope seemed to be a quick attack as male fencers don't expect that from an older woman. I think he was surprised but not as surprised as I was when I realised his counter-attack had landed flat. I'd continued my attack as taught by a coach who makes us go for three successive hits (wrist/forearm, upper arm, chest) and, because I hadn't paused, it was I who had landed the successful hit.

It was my only win of the evening. Puzzled and slightly dazed by this sole success, I initially forgot the routine courtesy of shaking my opponent's hand and had to run after him to apologise. Luckily he's still talking to me - and still fencing me. He has sufficient experience as a fencer to give me useful advice but, as he's still regaining his accuracy, I can gain some hits against him. It won't last. I can see from the glow in his eyes that he's a good epeeist out of practice - I'm just waiting to see how good.

The evening's trophy - an Easter egg - was won by the Man man after a play-off against the club's president, who had donated the egg. And there were small chocolate creme eggs for the rest of us - and enough over for fencers who were practising other weapons.

The day after the one-hit epee, I headed off on a holiday which included the chef's birthday celebration at her apartment in Paris. I'm sad to report that she has not continued with her fencing in France and there was no swordplay at her party (perhaps because the apartment is not big enough). There was plenty of delicious food, however, as well as a lavish variety of gin-based cocktails. As it was my host's birthday the following day, I wasn't sure I'd still fit into my breeches on my return to England. It took a few deep breaths.

I thought the cycle ride to fencing would help me achieve fitness. It didn't. My bike had a serious puncture and I had to walk. At least I could enjoy the birdsong and the scents of spring. And I enjoyed the fencing even though there's no coaching in epee during the Easter holidays (coaches have holidays too). I was glad to see that the new epeeist had returned - there seems to be a good chance that he'll be a regular attender. I fenced a little and walked home. Two days later, I took my bike to the repair shop rather than struggle with the puncture alone. This meant I could have an Easter Monday bike ride as well as cycling to fencing.

It felt good to be on my bike again. The following week I headed off happily and enjoyed the evening, although I spent more time in conversation and less in fencing than I had planned. Now that I'm spending more time asleep I'm enjoying the fencing much more and can even make modest improvements.

I was reflecting on how good the evening had been as I wheeled the bike to it's usual place before locking it. Then, just beside the house, I heard an ominous sound. "A puncture," I thought and looked at the ground to see what I'd run over. I couldn't see anything that would have damaged the bike - just the remains of a snail whose shell I must have crushed. I was sorry about the snail but relieved about the bike.

I was relieved too soon. This morning I unchained my bike and prepared to set off for Quaker Meeting. As soon as I mounted it I realised that the front tyre was flat again. I think it's the snail's revenge. I'm seriously contemplating anti-puncture tyres.

And I'm hoping to return to regular blogging.

culinary genius

It might have been rude to take pictures of every course at a dinner party, so I didn't. But this picture, of a pavlova made by the chef for a party this summer, gives some idea of her culinary genius.

The chef greeted me with an offer of cocktails - I chose one with elderflowers and gin - then took me to see her bathroom, which has recently been renovated. "Probably the best bathroom in the world," I agreed and offered my compliments to the grouter.

The chef's house was strangely bare of books, since she's been packing, but filled with wonderful odours. I will give you the menu so that your mouth can water as mine did.

We began with rosemary soup. I've never experienced this before but I've learnt that it's a traditional recipe and that the first stage involves steeping fresh rosemary in milk. Later potatoes and onions are used. It's a wonderful flavour and the soup was garnished with more sprigs of rosemary and served with warm, fresh bread. We started on the wine too - a Pinot Gris from Alsace.

The main course was a frittata, with cheese and cauliflower. The chef always has spare egg whites, possibly because she likes to separate eggs in her spare time. She included some of these so that the frittata was remarkably light. She served it with a green salad.

The dessert was home-made creme brulee with a crispy top (formed with the aid of a blow-torch) and a raspberry base - a coulis, perhaps. It was wonderful.

We rounded off the meal with fresh coffee - black and strong - accompanied by brandy. Conversation was easy - perhaps I talked too much. We had more brandy ... and more. It was pleasantly smooth. Then, suddenly, I glanced at my watch and found to was 10 to 1. I decided I'd better go home.

The pavement swayed in a disconcerting manner and my feet took a slightly curving route over the paving stones. The teenagers were waiting for me. "What sort of time do you call this?" they asked, and, "Mum, have you been drinking?"

I was too abashed to complain that they were up late. I began to hope that the pleasant evening wouldn't hamper my ability at fencing the following night .... or the fit of my breeches.

the apprentice and the Cardinal's men

The chef blamed it all on Surallan, a sinister character who stalks through The Apprentice making bad decisions. Worst of these, in the chef's eyes, was his decision to fire Lucinda, who had good taste in shoes.

In my opinion, Surallan's worst decision was to appear on TV on fencing nights, luring epeeists away from the piste and into comfortable armchairs.

The chef was torn. She wanted to fence but she also wanted to see the last episode of The Apprentice. She seemed to think it her duty to criticise Surallan's choice while drinking gin with a friend. She's finding it hard to make fencing at the moment. Next week she will be indulging in academic frivolities instead of serious swordplay.

Through Facebook, we arranged to arrive early and start fencing straight away, although the chef had second thoughts as we stood, epees in hand, occupying the space that could become a piste. "But people will watch us," she said. I hadn't thought her so self-conscious.

We waited a few minutes until a few other fencers had begun. The beginners were warming up by running round in circles. No electric pistes were ready. The chef and I fenced steam for a while. The chef suggested I could make a buzzing noise whenever one of us landed a hit, but I declined. I wasn't sure how to indicate red or green and I wasn't entirely sure how well our hits were landing. Meanwhile, at the other end of our space, people who knew how fiddled with the electric boxes.

Wires and boxes have halted fencing quite often lately. The chef and I pondered over possible solutions. We could try to learn how to mend them, but that would take time and more equipment than we could muster. The obvious solution was new boxes.

Last week I attempted to find a new use for child fencers. (The chef said I should have made it clear that the small fencer didn't fix the epee, by the way - a magnetic screwdriver was required.) This time my suggestion was perhaps a little unusual. Perhaps, I suggested, we could kidnap some of the beginners and use the ransom money to buy new boxes. "But how shall we choose which ones to kidnap?" asked the chef, who prefers grown-ups to children.

I thought the easiest way would be to choose the smallest candidates as they would be most portable. The chef and I don't have a car between us and I'm not sure my bicycle basket is big enough. But the chef suggested it would be better to choose the wealthiest, because then we would need fewer. "Look at their trainers," she suggested.

We contemplated the beginners' trainers, gradually realising we didn't know how to identify expensive trainers. Fortunately at that moment the youth, who had been fiddling with a box and a wire, stood up and indicated that it was done.

When we inspected his handiwork, there was something strange about it. Two reels had been connected to one another. The youth challenged both of us to a duel, simultaneously.

At first the box refused to register hits. The chef and I fenced the youth singly. He was hitting hard and parrying my blade with such strength that I found it impossible to disengage. I managed some surprise hits, noting his habit of raising his forearm slightly, leaving a neat target if I could manage to lunge fast enough. Mostly I couldn't. But later, against the chef, I suddenly managed and accelerating lunge and found that the change of tempo took her by surprise.

Then the chef made the linked boxes work and somehow persuaded the chef and me to accept his challenge. "It will be humiliating," the chef said. I tended to agree but it was also a bit like the movies. The chef suggested a strategy. "I'll distract him with swordplay and you come in and hit him."

It didn't work. The chef and the youth fenced rapidly down the piste and I ran after them, trying to catch up. They waited for me. Then the youth hit me.

After this had happened a couple of times, I remembered the movies. The youth, with all his callow determination to win, was plainly d'Artagnan. The chef and I were the villains - the Cardinal's men. We didn't need to play by the rules. Why stop just because the youth had hit one of us or because we'd fenced him off the end of the piste.

Lawlessness was much more fun ... and made sure we got some hits in. "This is much more like real life," I said cheerfully. In real life people don't stop fencing just because a light comes on or they here a buzz.

"In real life we'd both be dead," said the chef sternly, "and there'd be blood everywhere."

"Well, allright ... it's like the movies."

Then the chef set off for her date with Surallan and the youth acknowledged that he, too, might head home to watch TV. What with the football and Surallan there were hardly any epeeists, although there were still queues for pistes.

I was about to pack up and go when a newish foilist - a left-hander who's fenced a lot elsewhere - asked if I'd like to fence steam foil. I was about to say yes when I remembered she'd mentioned an epee that she'd bought buy never used. We agreed on epee first, then foil.

I know enough about fencing to know that she was still half in epee mode - aiming for the body and exposing her forearm and elbow at times. This would have helped me if she hadn't been so fast. She didn't have the foilist's useful fault of hesitation (to establish right of way). I managed the occasional hit on her mask, leg and arm as she's not used to defending them, but, epeeist though I am, I was outclassed by a foilist.

Then we fenced foil. I think one of my hits might have been valid. She smashed me. "Half my age," I told myself. "It's OK."

It was still daylight when I cycled home. The elderflowers were in full blossom and beginning to weigh down the hedges by the cycle path. In a week or two there will be tiny purple fruit - and birds and insects.

lttle fencing, much conversation

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

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

It was very hard to fit into my breeches.

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

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

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

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

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


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