slow motion parries

"There are nine parries in epee," the coach began, and proceeded to demonstrate them all. After the first three, I was lost. These weren't simple or circular parries but the various position in which an epeeist could hold back the advance of an opponent. "When would I use that?" doc wondered as the coach demonstrated a particularly high parry. "I'd use it against a tall opponent - like you," the coach responded.

We moved on to a complicated parry involving a beat against the blade to draw the attack followed by a rapid corkscrew movement which was supposed to circle the blade while advancing, bind it, hold it out of the way and slide in for a hit. I think it may have been called a progressive covered parry but I was concentrating so hard on the movement that there was no space in my brain for what it was called. I stood with the brunette watching the doc and the Man man try the parry. They didn't seem to find it that easy but I assumed that the coach was making things hard for them. Then it was my turn to fail.

I think the coach was getting a little despondent by then. He tried to encourage us with some simple tests. But we couldn't demonstrate nine parries nor explain the difference between reprise and remise. So we went back to a simple warm-up - moving up and down the piste and hitting to wrist. Then the coach added a leather chap - the kind that cowboys wear - so that we could hit to his leg as well. After the inevitable joke about horses and sabreurs, we managed rather better. This was a simpler and more familiar task. And after that the progressive covered parry - or whatever it was called - seemed to work rather better. At any rate, I managed it in slow motion, though I don't think that will be particularly helpful in a real bout.

We finished with a round of one-hit epee and then the brunette and I, too tired to wait for an electric piste, persuaded another coach to ref while we fenced steam to five. The brunette has the advantage of height and being a left-hander (and being younger than me) but I've been fencing longer. I'm never quite sure how reliable a ref can be when epeeists fence steam so I'm not entirely convinced I won 5-4. Still, the evenness of the bout was a pleasure. But I wish I weren't so tired in the evenings. It seems a shame to leave before the fencing has finished - but it would be a bigger shame to fall off my bike on the way home.

women with swords

I suppose it's the same in most sports - women are in the minority.

There are practical reasons for this. Women often have to limit sporting activities during pregnancy and when children are young. That gap makes it hard for many women to continue with sports. There are exceptions of course. I remember feeling nervous when watching my then-pregnant friend Anna fly from trapeze to trapeze or fall, as planned, to the net at her regular class. She assured me she would give up when the safety harness stopped fitting and that the circus's experienced trapeze artists knew what was safe. Certainly her pregnancy went well - perhaps trapeze classes are safer than being hit by a sword.

Women also tend to have pressures that don't affect men. They are usually the ones who do most childcare - and that's even the case in two-parent families when both parents are working. That limits the time parents can spend on sport. I was able to take up fencing because my son was already fencing - and the rules said an adult had to be present.

Women are usually poorer than men, which means that they have less money to spend on sport. I'm lucky - my fencing club has low fees and gave me plenty of time to acquire my epee kit. I'm also better off than most women. For many, sporting activity is an impossible dream.

As a result, sports clubs tend to be dominated by men - often in the nicest possible way. Our fencing club now has women on the committee - women who have brought in new, practical ideas and seen the club grow in strength as a result. But all the coaches and most of the members are still male - women and girls probably make up a fifth to a quarter of each beginners' class and are about the same proportion of regular attenders.

Now that the chef has settled in Paris, I'm once again the only woman regularly fencing epee. I wish I were better at it - there's something sad about being the only woman epeeist and the weakest fencer. Years ago, my idea of joining a chess club came to nothing when I discovered I would be the only woman member - it would have been fine had I been a great chess player but I didn't reckon my skill sufficient to represent my gender in this way. Fortunately the skills of women at sabre and foil - combined with my age and late start in sport - means that I'm never the token woman. I'm just a woman in her 50s who enjoys epee without being good at it. Everyone knows that there are brilliant women epeeists - it just happens that I'm not one of them.

Most of the women who fence - probably all the women who fence - are fitter than me when they begin and have experience of other sports. Most of them are younger and seem intimidatingly beautiful and confident. I still try to persuade them to take up epee because it's a lovely weapons, because it's fun, because (just occasionally) it's like being one of the Three Musketeers, and because I like to fence women as well as men.

We're still crammed into the small hall (the floor in the big hall may be ready for us in mid-November) and using squash courts for classes. At least this means conversation is easy and I finally found myself talking to two women who are in the intermediate class for foil. Of course, I tried to persuade them of the superior merits of epee. They would plainly add glamour to the weapon - one is a tall brunette and the other a petite blonde who wears huge piratical hooped earrings - even when fencing. Both have long curling hair - rather like the Three Musketeers.

Perhaps I shoud learn how to curl my hair - but I think I'm a little old for that look. I'll stick with the hair-was-in-a-bun-but-is-falling-down-because-of-the-mask look.

They were hesitant about epee, asking about technique and - inevitably - about bruises. I recommended arnica tablets which, to my surprise, work well for me. "Why don't you have a go?" I asked, hoping that the buzz of fencing would seduce them to the best of weapons.

Other epeeists quickly took an interest - most men at our club like fencing women. I fenced each of them steam - slowly (not much change there), giving them a chance to feel what it was like. I stood with my arm lowered so that they could try wrist, arm and shoulder hits. Eventually body-wires and spare electric epees were produced so that the women could fence one another to 15 points.

One liked it - the other was not quite sure. That's not a bad result. I just hope the bruises don't put them off.

stabbing the ref.

"Are you sure you should be doing this?" the chef asked, as we lined up for footwork practice. There wasn't really enough space. Yet again there were 40 or 50 fencers in the hall and most were lined up, trying to follow the coach's instructions without tripping over one another. Luckily it was a short practice just varying speed and length of step with the occasional lunge and recovery.

It probably wasn't wise, but I shan't feel the pain till tomorrow. My foot still hurts and the doctor did tell me to rest it. I have rested it. (When I sleep I rest it for hours at a time.) Fencing is a great deal better than not fencing. And fencing with lunging and movement is much better than standing still and trying to parry. Perhaps I say that because I'm not very good at parrying. Doubtless the practice has been good for me.

Yet again there were queues for pistes. After Easter we're to have the hall for longer which should resolve the situation. As it was, the chef and I spent most of the time fencing steam, though we took out turn on the electric piste for epeeists. For some reason, the chef insisted we do foil as well as epee, just so that we could remember how to do it. But I don't remember how to do it. I tried to recall how to parry a foil, how to get right of way, what the target area was.

The pistes seemed narrower, though perhaps my clumsiness was to blame. On the electric piste, I was too close to the sabreurs, who seemed even more exuberant than usual after their successes in the recent Open. I was trying to be exuberant too, I've worked out that if I take enough exercise, I can't feel the pain in my foot any more - and that must be a good thing, mustn't it? ("You mean it's numb," the chef said critically.) I wasnt very successful but I got some hits and at least I was moving backward and forward and managing some lunges, though they weren't very deep. I tried some tricks and actually got a couple of hits by coming en garde in the low line and then raising my blade ... until the chef worked out what I was doing and hit me on the wrist. I tried some energetic parries and a few more odd blade positions - that's when I hit the ref.

She wasn't our ref. - she was reffing the sabreurs on the next piste, and perhaps I did no more than catch the body wire which wasn't properly tucked in her breeches' back pocket. I don't know what the penalty is for stabbing the ref. - or whether a ref. on an adjacent piste can impose a penalty. It wasn't a proper bout anyway - just a knockabout.

I lost the only scored (steam) bout that I had, against one of the male epeeist. He won 15-8, which would be a good score for me if I didn't suspect that he was deliberately leaving his forearm open for me to hit. Sometimes I missed. The chef reffed and I didn't stab her, even when I wasn't sure about the point. When I reffed the short bout that followed (curtailed by closing time) I was too tired to see the blades clearly. They flashed and blurred and I wasn't sure where the hits had landed.

My foot suffered twinges and the last half-mile of the walk h ome made me wonder if I'd been wise to fence. But I don't regret it, even though there may be pain tomorrow.

fencing the chef

"I am a culinary genius," my opponent declared on Facebook last week.

It's probably true. One of her plans for the future involves opening a cake shop She's the only person I know who makes her own crumpets.

However, culinary genius has its effects, I observed, as I helped her zip her jacket last week. (I had to breathe in to manage the buttons on my breeches but that's lack of exercise and not genius.)

"I can't breathe properly," the chef said. "Oh good," I responded, "that will give me a chance."

But it didn't. We fenced steam epee, as the pistes were taken. The hall was still packed with keen beginners and eager intermediates so we didn't even have a whole piste, just a little space. I was hit quite a lot and, in return, I hit the air around the chef's arm and head. I wondered if I would ever hit anybody or anything at all.

We took a break and conceded the space. "Let's try sabre," I said, thinking that I might manage to hit her with a slashing motion. She wasn't keen. She wanted to try foil. But she accompanied me to the weapon store. There weren't any sabres. "I think it's telling us something," she said. "It's telling us to look for sabres elsewhere," I suggested brightly.

We found the sabres. They were in use. So we tried foil.

I kept hitting the chef's bib, or her mask, or her arm. She kept hitting me. Then she suggested we pause after each hit and analyse it, so that we could describe the fencing phrase and work out who had won. "Like in American football?" I asked ... and somehow that led to a discussion of American football and ice hockey. It was interrupted by the reasonable request, "Can we have this space if you're not using it?"

We retreated to the sidelines, realising we hadn't behaved well, and tried to recruit a fencer to help us to analyse fencing phrases and assign points. But all the fencers wanted to fence. Eventually we found a space again and fenced foil some more, trying to analyse each point. Mostly we analysed the different ways in which the chef had hit me or the ways in which I'd failed to establish right of way, so that my hit didn't count.

I went home wondering whether I could ever progress in fencing, or whether age-related deterioration had set in. The chef is less than half my age so has the advantage of youth.

She has the advantage of fitness too. She cycles everywhere, even up hills, and goes to the gym a couple of times a week. I walk, take trains and read in bed, which isn't quite so effective. However, yesterday her Facebook page announced that she had "failed miserably to go to the gym" and had gone to the pub instead. "Aha," I thought, "I'm in with a chance."

It didn't seem much of a chance but this week my epee seemed more comfortable in my hand. Before leaving the house I'd watched Joe the cat fending off an attack from a large, cross, grey fluffy cat, who has been in the habit of visiting our house on occasion since his kitten days. The grey fluffy cat has lately developed a bad temper, hissing and growling on the most minor provocation. During Joe's recuperation, we shut the cat-flap so that Joe couldn't get out and other cats couldn't get in. From Grey Fluff's point of view, his territory had been stolen. A new cat was encroaching on his empire (Grey Fluff tries to control a number of houses, threatening the occupants until they provide fuss, warm beds and cat food.) Earlier today, Joe responded to Grey Fluff's attach with a sleepy and surprised stare. In the evening, he finally fought back for a moment and Grey Fluff disappeared through the cat-flap, though a moment later his paw reached back in, claws at the ready.

I was appalled at the little outbreak of violence and the cats' quick shft from hissing, growling anger to the rapid whirr of paws and claws. But when I held my epee later in the evening, something in the speed of the cats seemed to inspire me. For the first time in weeks I moved faster and more fluently, gaining accuracy at the same time. It wasn't brilliant - except for me. I started to land hits on the chef - not all the time, but about as many as she landed on me. I was hitting her right arm. OK, she hadn't been to the gym and, as I learned later, her arm was hurting even before I started hitting it, but I felt as though I was moving with greater agility.

Later I fenced a good epee fencer who had been unable to fence for some months. Usually I can't touch him when he's been away because he compensates for stiffness in movement with devastating accuracy but this time I managed to land hits - not the majority of hits but many more than usual. I was tiring, however, and my hits became less frequent. My arm was aching and I was relieved when he signalled that the next point would be the last.

I didn't get as much fencing as I'd have liked. The hall is still crowded and fencers wait for steam space as well as pistes. The coaches are kept busy. The club is popular just now, with sabreurs in particular doing well in competition. But tonight I regained something I'd lost in the last few weeks: the sense that I can still improve and, on occasion, go beyond my expectations. Tonight, once again, I felt like a fencer.

a swarm of sabreurs

A series of domestic crises delayed me. But my epee was calling. I wanted to stab someone. It was too late to walk so I called a cab.

As I crossed the bridge to the far end of the leisure centre, I saw the beginners getting their kit on. I'd missed the warm-up - even the footwork practice. That was bad enough. But as I looked round the hall I realised something still worse. I was the only epeeist.

I tried to persuade foilists and sabreurs of the greater virtues of epee but they were unconvinced. The usual arguments were expressed: that epee needed no skill (because you can hit anywhere and there is no right of way) and, more feebly, that the bruises are too bad. I tried to point out the superior skill and strength of epeeists but I failed. My arguments seemed as feeble as those advanced by the unnamed narrator of "Murders in the rue Morgue" when he insists that draughts needs a greater order of intelligence than chess.

Sadly, I picked up my foil, marvelling at its lightness.

Sabreurs swarmed over the electric pistes. I had to fence steam, with an unamiliar weapon. I fenced a young woman with a solid, blocking parry that I struggled to pass. I fenced the smallest, youngest fencer to have left beginners and wondered how anyone could hit so tiny a target area. I fenced an older boy who always insists I'm mad. (He has a point.)

Ar last I had a bout at epee, against an experienced foilist who took pity on my isolation. We grabbed an electric piste while the sabreurs rested. The young man was swift and accurate but tended to focus on the foil target areas. Sometimes he touched too lightly to score a hit. Occasionally I broke through his guard - or, more probably, he let me through. So I my light brightened as well as his.

It may have been the foil but perhaps I'm recovering some lost fitness. I felt a little faster, a little less stiff. It wasn't a triumph but something was achieved as I struggle to improve. Even if the improvement is mostly in my mind - but I do feel faster - that will help with my fencing. I'm not exactly confudent but happier in my body and less anxuious. That should help.

more important than fencing?

What can be more important than fencing? Quite a lot actually.

I'd been hesitant about fencing this week. Pain in my right wrist and arm - probably from typing with the keyboard at the wrong angle - left me worrying about how long I could hold an epee and how accurately I could hit. Being a worse epeeist than last week didn't appeal.

Then there was a new claim on my time. My son was asked to play a keyboard with a group in a school concert (one item on a packed programme). I had to persuade him that I'd behave well. "Don't say anything, don't clap along, don't join in the songs - whatever other people do," was the command. Instead of going fencing, I went to the concert.

Mu son's involvement was arranged late. I didn't know there would be tickets till the last minute. And I took my fencing kit just in case. I wasn't really hoping to challenge someone to a duel but the school is next to the leisure centre where we fence. As the concert began at 7.00 and fencing lasts till 9.30, I thought I might get half an hour's fencing at least. A couple of weeks back the epee coach had reckoned he could offer some help at 9.00, when the beginners moved on from coaching to free play.

I'd forgotten about school concerts. They are filled with unexpected delights. They are also long.

I'd asked my son how long it would be. "Long," he said, but could give no detail. "Long" was a fair description. The first part lasted an hour and a half. Luckily I loved a great deal. The opening samba band thrilled the audience with gusto . A teacher - evidently a trained singer (professional standard, surely) - sang songs by Roger Quilter and Vaughan Williams. It wasn't quite to the pupils' taste but I was enraptured. He sang my favourite Quilter song - a setting of Tennyson's most erotic poem (although the wonderful couplet at the centre is omitted from the setting). A student gave a startlingly intense and interior rendition of Bach on an elderly and inadequate keyboard - and produced wonders. There were performers filled with enthusiasm and many with great promise. Some technically imperfect performances were moving. I willed them to do their best, knowing that one day they might do better still.

At previous school concerts pupils were compelled to wear school uniform. This time they wore their own clothes, which seemed to boost their confidence. The costumes were mostly casual and not extravagant - but they showed the characters of the performers. The audience (family, friends, other performers) cheered every act wildly. Pupils left the stage grinning

At half time I headed for the leisure centre to give my apologies. The hall looked cool and relatively empty (quite a few fencers were on the stage or in the audience). I looked longingly at the white-clad fencers as they moved swiftly and skilfully. All at once, I wanted to be among them. The epee coach wasn't there so I had no apology to give. I wondered briefly whether 20 minutes would allow me to get my kit on, exchange a few hits, change back and sit calmly in the audience. I knew it wouldn't. "If it ends early," I asked, knowing it wouldn't, "could I keep my jeans on and slip on a jacket and fence foil - just steam?" The coach I asked agreed but we both knew I was unlikely to be back.

It was a good concert. I just needed a time-turner. Sometimes I need to be in two places at once.

The first half had included popular and classical items. The second moved more towards rock. The version of YMCA in which my son was involved sounded like punk to me, but my knowledge is dated. I think Village People might have found it unexpected. The rock version Pachebel's Canon was startling. An energetic death metal performance (preceded by a polite announcement that was half explanation, half apology) had the young people applauding ecstatically while the grannies smiled. It all took them back to their youth. They thought happily of Alice Cooper.

The concert ended after 10. I was filled with energy as I collected my kit and swords from the leisure centre reception and headed home.

Next week, I hope ...

Meanwhile, I can fantasise ...

Losing - despite electric aid

There was splendid advice in response to my last post. I wasn't sure I could do it but I thought I'd give it a go.

But of course, the fencer I found so difficult wasn't there and I found myself fencing women for a change. They were all shorter than me but I found that once in a while I could score points by lunging and going low. On the whole, however, I missed. I missed by miles, moved slowly and hit flat.

When we moved from steam to the electric piste it seemed as though I was doing better. I was 5-2 up when my opponent landed a clear hit that didn't register - the box had stopped working. So I probably wasn't 5-2 up either.

I thought I'd try for particular hits and see if I could get them. It was a stupid idea. As I tried to slide my blade over my opponent's guard on point after point, my moves were repetitive. I was defeated every time. I decided to try for the knee, repeatedly. My opponent was waiting.

Later, fencing a more experienced fencer, I scored what I thought was a good hit. My light went on - but my opponent was checking her equipment. Her body wire had become detached (not her fault - problems with the connection from the box). It seemed as though the electric equipment felt sorry for me and was trying to help me out. It didn't succeed.

I lost.

Later I switched to foil and fenced my son, who had returned after a few weeks off. He was out of practice and his back was hurting. He beat me 5-1.

It was good to see people and practice. Perhaps next week I'll have better fencing to report.

steaming on

The rain continues. Being British, we all talk about the weather in a "mustn't grumble" sort of way, reminding one another that the crops need it. But nostalgic memories of April sun creep in.

I'm writing this while the adrenalin works as pain relief. I just noticed that one of the hits to my right arm drew blood - just where they apply the needle at the blood donor clinic. It's going to be bruised too and I suspect it will start hurting badly in half an hour or so As I enjoyed all my bouts, it was worth it.

The hall was packed and several epeeists had returned after absence. One had been in Paris at the same time as me. She'd been in the Place de la Bastille on election night, even though she knew Segolene Royal was unlikely to be celebrating there. "Did you burn any cars?" I asked eagerly, having heard about the disturbances. But she hadn't. There was just a fairly tame demonstration in French terms - perhaps with a couple of fireworks - until the police started throwing tear-gas at everyone.

We discussed the elections during footwork - annoying, I expect, but it was a while since we'd seen each other. It wasn't good for our footwork either - we kept forgetting which lowered arm called on us to lunge and which to step-lunge. But then I succumbed to foil and, after that, quite a lot of epee.

I wasn't particularly good or strategic, though every so often there was a hit that pleased me. But I enjoyed it a great deal. The evening ended with a steam bout (which we decided half way through should go to 20, since there seemed enough time). Epee is the easiest weapon to ref on electric and the hardest on steam. Refs have to be persuaded and cajoled into giving it a go. "Please ref for us ... we'll make it easy for you."

"Could you please hit each other on the side nearest me?" our ref pleaded, as we turned to her for a decision. "I can't see if a hit lands."

Then, "Do you think he hit you before you hit him?"

Later I pointed out that she'd missed my hit ... possibly. "But he's more likely to get a hit than you," she explained, "so if I watch for his hits I've got more chance of seeing them"

"That's not fair," I complained. "I'm not so good as him so I need the extra points. Look for my hits and don't worry about his."

By this time we were both giggling so my opponent offered his help. "Why don't you give her one hit for every four you give me? That would be about right."

I'm not sure about the scoring - none of us was - but 4 to 1 overstated it. My opponent won 20-9 which seemed about right.