fencing, aggression and the endurance of epeeists

"Be more aggressive!"

I've been given that advice countless times - even more than "Keep your wrist up," "Don't drop your guard", "Move - faster - vary your speed," and "Lunge!" So I'm quite pleased to know that the Sunday Express, in a screaming front-page headline, wants me to be banned.

Well, the story doesn't actually mention me. It's about youths in hoodies terrorising neighbourhoods. But it calls for hoodies to be banned from shops, shopping centres, public transport, high streets and other public areas so that people can walk safely.

My fencing club has an elegant hoodie. It's black with gold lettering and logo - and I don't just wear it between bouts. I wear it when shopping and travelling - even when working. It's an easy garment to wear and much easier to wash than a cardigan or jumper. But hoodies have already been banned from one shopping centre and will probably be banned elsewhere. The danger is, apparently, that the hood can be pulled up and might even shield the face from CCTV cameras.

It's not a new problem. Fencers have worn some pretty elaborate headgear in the past. Judging from this statue of d'Artagnan (it's in Maastricht) concealing headgear and a propensity for violence go pretty well together. And, worse still, fencers have a tendency to face their opponents while masked.

I wonder how long till the Sunday Express calls for a ban on the fencing mask. Perhaps they will use their favourite phrases about a "nanny state" culture and bureaucracy gone mad and urge a return to the good old days when a duellist really risked death but could see the person who was about to kill him.

Lately I've been better at wearing a hoodie than fencing effectively. A bad cold tempted me to stay home last week, but I determined to fence anyway. A 25-minute walk - or rather limp - in heavy rain wasn't good for me, but I was more worried about my swords. At least I didn't need to rush. We now have the hall for an extra hour. There was even plenty of space and a shortage of foilists and sabreurs - some sabreurs had been persuaded to join the foilists in a friendly tournament against a neighbouring club.

I tried to take advantage of the extra space and time but it was one of those evenings when I felt the wrong size and shape for fencing. The chef is on holiday, so there was less chance for laughter. Instead the other epeeists - all men - handed out helpful advice which I couldn't follow. I felt woozy and my foot hurt. I picked up a fair number of bruises and landed few good hits.

I wasn't the only fencer who left early. The beginners, the foilists and sabreurs packed up early. I asked one of the coaches if he could give me a lift home. When we left, four epeeists remained. They had the hall to themselves and were fencing steadily. As I waved goodbye they looked as though they could continue for ever.

cats and swords

As you can see, he's a beautiful cat. I'm not sure if he's our cat yet, but if he's ours his name is Joe. He's lived with us for a week and a half. He came in quietly, as cats do, and lay down by the fire, indicating that this was his house and we were his people. There wasn't much we could do about it so we offered cat food. He's living with us now. And I think he's already had an impact on my fencing.

Last fencing night looked good. I was able to work from home so I reckoned on a leisurely stroll to to fencing - perhaps even time for some exercise at home. I should have known it wouldn't work like that.

I've told the full story elsewhere - and that's where I'll post feline follow-ups. It's enough to say that on the morning of my fencing day, I came downstairs to pools of blood - and no cat. A fox had been barking in the night but I don't know what was to blame. The cat came in briefly and left again - he may have overheard my daughter's phone-call to the vet or my call to a neighbouring sabreur who owned a cat basket. We finally got Joe to the vet in the evening. His wound opened again and he dripped blood over the vet's table.

(Note to North American readers: we Brits always call a veterinarian a "vet" - here the term has nothing to do with the military.)

A decision was made to keep Joe in overnight and operate in the morning - the only question was "Do you take credit cards?" Afterwards my son and I picked up pizzas and I wondered whether to head, late and shakily, to fencing. There was no time to walk. I rang the cab company, changed, grab my swords and backpack and headed into the cold.

The hall was warm. There must have been about 50 fencers in attendance, 20 of them beginners learning what a plastron was and how to wear a mask. I had no chance for a warm-up. Instead, I found myself telling anyone who would listen the story of the cat, and how I seemed to have a cat even though I didn't really want one. A critically ill cat seemed more than I could cope with in a world of responsibilities.

I tried to forget the cat and focus on fencing. "Let's impress the beginners," I said to a fellow epeeist. She suggested gently that we might not be very impressive. "We're rather slow," she said. I thought that the size of the swords might compensate. So for five minutes or so the beginners were treated to the sight of me being hit repreatedly - and fairly slowly - with a big sword while I went on thinking about the cat.

I might have been hit just as many times but I like to believe that, if I hadn't been thinking about the cat, I'd have put up more resistance. Eventually my blade found it's way to one or two hits - even on the arm - but it had little assistance from me.

My fencing didn't improve all evening - and an attempt at foil resulted in a run of bib hits, which aren't, I think, legal yet. Still, I was half distracted.

At the end of the evening I set out to walk home - given the vet's bill I plainly should avoid too much expenditure on taxis. It's only a mile and a half and an easy walk - or so I thought until I realised that I'd arrived in fencing clothes with no coat. It was the only day all week without rain. Instead, the night air was white with freezing fog. I gritted my teeth and strode out, shivering slightly.

At last luck and kindness were on my side. A fellow fencer - the victim of my wine the week before - pulled up beside me and offered a lift. I must have reinforced his impression of my clumsiness as, between cold and shakiness from worry, I dropped my swords on the road. But I clambered in and was soon home to discover a neighbour's cat had taken Joe's place and was fast asleep on my bed.


Note: In case you're concerned about the cat, he came through the operation and is now convalescent. He's got to go back to the vet a couple of times but he seems much happier and livelier. He's had a go at using the computer too.

glowing in the dark

Soon there'll be tales of a new ghost haunting the water-meadows. I don't think anyone screamed. Perhaps they were mute with terror. It wasn't intended. I just went to fencing and came home when it was over.

This week, I booked a cab. My son planned to come but then he was tired and, at the last minute, his back hurt, so I got in the cab on my own. I was already in my fencing kit so that I could join the warm-up straight away.

It was only as I got ready for footwork practice that I realised: I'd forgotten my jeans.

When I'm with others, I phone for a cab if I don't have a lift. If I'm on my own I either cycle or walk. And fencing kit isn't every day walking gear.

I put it out of my mind and got on with the footwork practice. I wanted to get my lunges right. Footwork was harder than usual. The coach's instructions ,included "and when I lunge, I want you to parry quarte and riposte with a lunge". So we were moving backward and forward, trying to keep steps neat and maintain distance through shifts of speed, waiting for the cue to parry and riposte with a lunge. By the end, we were moving at speed awaiting the cue to fleche. At least I didn't fall over.

Therer weren't many epeeists but in any case I'd made a resolution to do more foil. My opponent said that at least I wasn't fencing like an epeeist but I had to keep reminding myself "small target area", "establish right of way", "parry", "no doubles". It was helpful, however, forcing me to be precise and deal (or fail to deal with) different kinds of guard. And it paid off when I moved on to epee. I was better able to plan hits - well, sometimes. On one occasion I even said to myself, "Next time I'm going for the wrist" - and I made it!

My second opponent was on top form; light, fast and accurate. Most of the hits I landed were doubles and it took me quite some while to land any at all. Between bouts I stood with other resting fencing by the open doors. The weather's warm again and everyone's first impulse after a bout was to stand in a cool breeze.

Only as I took off my jacket did I realise the impact I'd make when walking home, dressed in white shoes, socks and breeches with a black T-shirt and hoodie. My bottom half would glow in the dark. Mty top half would be invisible. I'd look like half the ghost of a fencer sliced in half by a careless or vicious sabreur.

Luckily my path lay along the road throuth the water-meadows and one young fencer's mother stopped and offered me a lift. But I'd already walked a quarter of a mile or more, with my bottom half glowing white in a black night.

I wouldn't mind a few new ghost stories.