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.

picking up speed

Perhaps the brief excursion to Robin Hood country did the trick, although Nottingham Castle isn't the same as when Robin fought his way up staircases and swung from chandeliers. Perhaps it was the hour or so I spent sitting in the sunshine. Perhaps I'm just recovering. Whatever it was, I noticed a change for the better.

I was late and slightly wobbly when I arrived at fencing. I wanted to do the warm-up but the exercise required partners and everyone was paired up already. I had to wait for the short footwork practice to join in, But when we had to lunge, I felt an improvement. It wasn't a deep lunge - I can't do those - but it was definitely a lunge rather than a step forward followed by a slight bend of the right knee.

When the chef and I got onto to epee piste, I was filled with energy and, for the first time since my fall from the loft, speed. I probably wasn't that fast but I felt terrific as I launched the attack. I took the first two points despite the chef's vigorous and equally speedy defence and the third was a double. After that, she began to win points. "I don't want to read on your blog that I'm easy to beat," she commented. She isn't. After that promising opening she won more points than I did. But it felt like real fencing again.

The problem with picking up speed, I discovered, was the loss of accuracy that accompanied it - not that I'd been brilliantly accurate before. Too often my point glided harmlessly above or along my opponent's arm or shoulder. I tried to deceive opponents by changing the position of my arm, so that it would be harder to gauge a constantly changing distance. The aim was to lure opponents into reach and hit before they noticed. It usually didn't work like that. They would see my exposed hand and wrist and take the hit. The chef is particularly difficult to catch out. She's smaller than me with a deep lunge. If I reach under her arm to angle upwards, she can manage a downwards hit. But reaching her arm from above is also a risk because she's smaller and lunges so well. Most of my points involved parrying her blade and hitting to the chest, or occasionally the mask, though I did achieve a couple of forearm hits and one to the thigh.

I didn't get quite as much fencing as I'd have liked - I had quite a bit of time on the piste but only two opponents. But it was good to see new fencers, including an epeeist from the university club and a good left-handed foilist (with epee in bag!) making her second visit. It's still crowded, though the number of fencers in the hall had dropped below 40 by 9.00 p.m. And I was tired and limping before the session ended. The chef watched me get on my bike with all my equipment - "for entertainment value," she said. She suggested wego on a bike ride together some time but now she's realised how slowly I cycle I expect she's changed her mind. I manage a steady pace on my sturdy mountain bike. She races ahead on her young person's bike - is there a biathlon in fencing and cycling?

Meanwhile, I'm contemplating old age. I was cheered by the story of the old people's home in Australia where the residents have taken up fencing. The oldest beginner is a retired nun in her 90s. That's the sort of old people's home I want. When I'm a frail old person, looking for somewhere to stay, I shan't accept the offer of knitting classes and community singing. "Do you offer fencing?" I shall ask. (I suppsoe I might have to compromise and exchange my epee for a foil.)

I'm still wondering if it was the visit to Nottingham Castle that did me so much good. It's a steep climb up castle rock, whether by slope or stone staircase. This may be where Robin Hood fenced the Sherrif.