Curry and high heels

I don't know how duellists managed in the 17th and 18th century. The extravagant menus must have weighted them down and as for the costumes, and the shoes ...

My most recent experience of fencing reminded me of them - and I felt more sympathy than usual for the rich, well-fed and elegantly dressed.

The team lunch at work was my idea. We needed to prepare for a meeting at lunchtime. There were the usual possibilities: bringing sandwiches, going hungry, cheese and biscuits in the pub. But there's also an excellent South Indian vegetarian restaurant round the corner offering a bargain 3-course buffet lunch. I thought a meal there would be a cheerful occasion - and it was.

But by the time I struggled into my fencing breeches, I was feeling uncomfortably full - not the best beginning to the evening. And after a couple of weeks with few epeeists, a couple of the regulars had returned. I'd have liked to fence well. Perhaps the lunch wasn't such a good idea.

Halfway into my first bout against the doc, I noticed another problem - an ache in my ankles. Perhaps the elegant shoes I'd chosen for work (a bargain from the Marks and Spencer sale) weren't such a good idea either. I suspect the ache came from running for the train in high heels - trainers would have been more comfortable. I did my best but I didn't even try any deep lunges. I knew my limits.

All the same, it was good to have an epée in my hand. A younger fencer invited me to fence foil as well and I enjoyed that too, though I kept having to remind myself about right of way.

While I was glad to fence, I was also pleased when it was time to go. But just as I walked to the side of the salle where fencers leave clothes, water bottles and spare swords, I noticed something small and dark scurrying around, slithering on the shine of the floor between the kit bags. It was quickly out of sight but I'd seen the sleek fur and a black sparkling eye. I felt sorry for the mouse - it was cold and damp outside - but it was at risk from a fencer's foot. Nor would a fencing kit bag be the best or safest place for a small animal.

The mouse was evidently too fast to catch but the doc joined me in steering it away from the kit bags. It ducked beneath the first of the double doors and headed towards the car park, but was then caught in a frenzy of anxiety. It tried to climb the wall and managed so well that the doc had to scare it down by hitting the wall with his sword. That's when the mouse gave up and jumped over the step of the second door, which we'd opened, and out onto starlit tarmac.

I hope the mouse has survived. There have been torrential downpours since then and I'd like to think he found a warm, safe shelter.

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.

bladework and footwork

I thought for a moment we'd converted a sabreur. There he was, standing by the piste, epee in hand. Perhaps he'd seen the error of his slashing ways?

But no. Conversation revealed that he'd started with epee, moved on to sabre, but thought he'd fence epee once in a while to keep in practice.

It was a shame but at least there was a chance for conversation. Even though attendance wasn't quite as high as in the past few weeks, we were still queuing for the electric pistes - and I'm still supposed to be resting my foot. Anyway, I was curious about this fencer as I'd seen his Facebook page and knew he trained at the Royal Ballet.

There are clear connections between the skills required for fencing and those needed for ballet, as one of the coaches says. It's easy to recognize the ballet-trained beginners - they're the ones who don't quiver when asked to stand on their toes.bend their knees outward into a demi-plie, and hold the position for a minute or two. They have accuracy too and a high level of bodily control.

But I didn't just want to talk to him because he was a good fencer. I enjoy watching ballet - not so much as opera but still with the immense pleasure that comes from watching people make years of training look easy as they enact deep emotions. They do swordfights too - the photo shows Jonathon Byrne Ollivier of the Northern Ballet Theatre as Athos in the ballet of The Three Musketeers.

The dancer had spent four years in professional ballet - from cabaret in Zurich to a stint as a dancer with the English National Opera - before injuries forced him to give up. These days he's a nurse, putting the knowledge of physiognomy all dancers gain to a useful purpose. But he lit up when he spoke of dancing and assured me he regretted nothing of his short career. I recalled ballets I had seen from the Gloria which uses Poulenc's music and imagery from the First World War to the pure delight of Ashton's choreography for Fille Mal Gardee. This led the dancer to speak of his love of Bournonville's choreography - and as he reminisced he almost moved into the bouncing leaps that are the Danish choreographer's trademark.

The conversation was cut short when the piste became free. We connected and tested our swords, saluted and put on masks and began to fence. The dancer was a joy to watch but at least I knew there was no hope of outdoing him in grace and speed. I had two hopes. I could cut through his elegant fencing and land the occasional hit by being direct and inelegant. And I could hope he fenced like a sabreur, guarding above the waist and pausing to establish right of way.

I managed more hits than I'd expected. But of course I didn't win. And that's not just because my foot hurt, cutting my speed further. I tried to focus on bladework and did my best. But I had no hope against the strength, speed and precision of a dancer. What's worse - I have a bruise on my wrist, suggesting a fell into the error of letting my guard slip.

And if any fencers doubt the skills of ballet dancers, watch strength and precision demanded by this brief piece of Bournonville choreography, danced by the 18-year-old Johann Kobborg. What a fencer he would make.

fencing for couch potatoes

Thank you, Eurosport.

I never thought I'd say that. But last week at fencing the word went round - "There's fencing on the telly."

The following day an e-mail arrived giving the times of the broadcasts.

I didn't get to see the events I would have chosen. I'd have liked to see Laura Flessel-Colovic win gold at epee.

But it was amazing to see fencing on television at all. Usually the most anyone in Britain can hope for is a 30-second montage of very exciting bits without explanation - and that happens only in an Olympic year. But Eurosport, a cable channel, carried live coverage from the European championships. Blocks lasted between three-quarters of an hour and two hours. And I watched the last two broadcasts.

I've never seen film of fencing at that level. The skill I saw made up for a shortage of epee broadcasts. I saw the team men's foil final and was startled by the technique of the German Benjamin Kleibrink.

Instead of the small, economical arm movements I was taught, he made large movements. On one occasion he followed a parry in the low-line with a riposte over his opponent's shoulder that attached on his back. Meanwhile the expert British commentators discussed right of way, the reasons for yellow and red cards and the techniques employed by the fencers. It all seemed so clear - and if there were problems, the referee and the audience had the chance to watch the slow-motion replay, which evoked further comment on technique.

Later I saw the end of the final of the men's epee and the women's team sabre final, where everything hung on the final point.

There was a huge distance between those fencers and me. When I started fencing, I used to admire all the experienced fencers and know I'd never be as good as them. But these international fencers are far beyond anything I could have imagined.
I could never lunge so deeply or move with such speed and precision. It's not just a matter of age. These fencers are magic.

But I'm not depressed by the distance between their fencing and mine. I'm thrilled at taking part in the same sport.

And I'm convinced that fencing works on TV - and not just for fencers. It's far more exciting than football (or the tennis or the Grand Prix or the Tour de France). It's fast, elegant and immensely clever. And they use swords.


Note: Not all the photos I've borrowed for this post show this year's European championship. Two come from earlier championships. European championship website - click here to start browsing.

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.