press-ups - and an unfamiliar sensation

The chef saw the video I posted and decided to show me how to do press-ups. Perhaps both of us were over-influenced by the prior consumption of gin and tonic. "You need to have your body straight," she warned me as she positioned herself, board-like, at an angle to the floor. She lowered her body easily so that her nose almost touched the floor and then pulled up again.

I was impressed. I took up a position next to her on the carpet, settled my hands in the way she told me and lowered myself slowly towards the carpet. Unfortunately that was as far as it went. I found myself lying on my stomach and giggling helplessly at the improbability of it all.

The chef - a good teacher - was determined. She showed me how to do press-ups from the knees so that I was supporting only half my body weight. I tried again, lowered myself slowly, and ended in a similar collapse of giggles.

I decided not to try any longer. I explained to the chef that my determination sprang only from the instructions of a mutual friend, a former trapeze artist and tightrope walker who had hosted the chef's visit to Australia last year. "She'll make you do it," the chef said, reminding me that the acrobat is due to visit shortly.

I had my doubts but deflected them by pointing to a pair of weights in the corner. "She said I should do weight training," I told the chef. Soon I was standing in the middle of the floor, raising and lowering the weights in a manner which the chef seemed to find unimpressive. "Let's go to the pub," I suggested. (I hope this suggestion works as well when the acrobat is here.)

I wish the chef would persevere with swordplay. As I told her, you can't stab anyone while doing press-ups - and the injuries caused by weights would not be attractive.

Meanwhile, I'm persevering with fencing. A holiday (in Paris as so often) helped and I felt fresh on my return. This didn't enable me to achieve a great transformation but in the first session after my holiday I felt rested and alive. My back barely troubled me.

The beginners' class hadn't started yet so there were no more than thirty fencers in the hall. I noticed something that had changed since I began fencing: far more women are involved. I counted twelve. When I began almost all the women were in the beginners' group. Now women are fencing at every level. There are beginners and once-a-week fencers like me but there are also women who have strong national rankings, bring medals and trophies home and compete internationally.

I'm not the only woman fencing epée. A glamorous young Spaniard has joined us - out of practice but evidently used to fencing at a high level because she decided to concentrate on her studies. Once she'd taken to the piste, the sabreurs clustered around her, suggesting that she might take up sabre. She has the sense to stick with epée and it's fun to see how her skills return. She's in a different league from me but happily takes her turn at fencing all the epéeists - and I feel very pleased if I land a couple of hits on her. Even doubles are pleasing.

I've had most success against a strong foilists who is just beginning epée. He's beginning to get away from what I think of as the foilist's pause - that fractional hesitation to establish right of way before attacking. His stance needs more work but it's improving all the time and he has the advantage of strength and accuracy.

Last week he raced ahead to 5-0 against me in a bout to 15. It didn't look very promising but I stayed calm and tried to work out how to get past his guard. Suddenly I made it to 5-1, then 5-2 and suddenly he was rattled and I was cool and confident.

It was, in a way, an absurd confidence. I didn't have a strategy or the variety of tactics I needed. But I saw that my opponent was getting cross - with himself, not me - and was repeating the same moves and mistakes, with slightly less conviction and accuracy each time. Somehow self-belief propelled me forward and I was suddenly, impossibly, 8-5 ahead. He tried to pull things together and managed a double hit. I retained my confidence, repeating the same parry riposte to every identical attack he made. The watchers were amused - it wasn't high-level fencing and they could see all the errors.

He pulled back a little towards the end but I could see his confidence had ebbed - and he was still cross with himself. I felt as though I were floating toward victory and, in the last points, was quite convinced I could win. It was the conviction that carried me through rather than any skill. I ended at 15-12 up, delighted with the unfamiliar sensation of victory.

There is, of course, a rematch and a less happy sequel, but I'll leave this post at the point of victory. It may never happen again.

5 - 4

Sometimes fencing goes right.

It shouldn't have been a successful week. My resolutions to exercise and practise came to nothing - as usual, I couldn't find the time. Well, I might have exercised during insomniac episodes but to read or make herbal tea. So I arrived, tired and unfit.

We shared our flood stories. There are floods nearby. Although they didn't threaten fencing, some fencers have faced tricky journeys as roads were closed and some railway tracks submerged. I found it hard to focus in the warm-up and dreaded my first encounter.

My opponent was a third my age: taller, stronger and a more experienced fencer. I didn't expect to take any points off him, although he said he'd been up half the night. We began by free fencing before a bout. I was encouraged to see that we began with two doubles.

It wasn't brilliant fencing - but it was very good for me. I was thinking strategically - suddenly the advice I received a few weeks ago began to make sense - and was varying my attacks. I knew what I wanted to do and sometimes it worked. And sometimes the point of my blade seemed to have its own ideas. I carried through a few attacks without hesitation. My opponent hit my arm a few times - harder than usual, which suggested he was not on good form.

We moved to a bout - just to 5 as the hall was hot. I took the first two points, one with a hit to the forearm. "Angulate," a voice said in my brain, echoing my coach.

After two points, I thought that was it. He would improve and concentrate and take five points in a row, Losing 5-2 has happened before and it felt OK. I expected to lose and he took the next two points - but I could see that they were easy ones I should have defended. I had to get the next point. I concentrated and took it. I can't remember but that may have been my wrist hit. Then he came back and took the next two points. 4-3. It was more than respectable but I wasn't letting go. I should remember which point was which but I don't. I recall a hit to the knee and a hit where I took his blade on the guard and kept going as he felt the impact jar.

I'd pulled up to 4-4. That was it, I thought, pleased with my performance. But as he attacked, I saw and opening. My blade took control and landed just as it should. 5-4 to me. I had won a bout.

It doesn't happen often. It hardly ever happens.

Suppose I were d'Artagnan. Perhaps I could defeat one of the Cardinal's men - so long as I was well-rested and he'd partied hard before a long ride through the night. It could happen - in my dreams.

slightly drunk and rather bruised

I went to the pub after fencing. It's a while since I've been to the pub but one of the fencers who began when I did - and who is now rather good - is headed for that mysterious place called "down south". It was his last night at the club.

Probably I shouldn't have been fencing. I was tired and bruised from last week. I'd had less than five hours sleep and a busy, exhausting and infuriating day at work. But of course I wanted to stab someone - as many people as possible.

I was glad I turned up. For the first time, there were more women epeeists than men (well, it was only 3 to 2). One of the women had just received her first epee and showed it off. "Shiny," every fencer remarked in turn, admiring the guard. The fencer was a little reluctant to risk her new treasure in combat - it seemed possible she'd be so protective that she'd be easy to beat.

It wasn't so. She has never beaten me so thoroughly. Even concern for her shiny guard didn't stop her. She said the pistol grip felt good in her hand. I'm back to being the only club fencer who uses a French grip.

I had a great deal of strategy this evening and tried mixing my attacks to take my opponents by surprise. This might have worked had I combined this with speed and accuracy. I was hit hard and hit hard - often, unfortunately, after I'd been hit by opponents. Occasional hits worked well and it's just possible this strategy of varying moves and attacks may work better when I'm awake, alert and accurate - the year after next, perhaps.

Then, hot and exhuasted, I headed with the crowd to the pub. I don't drink much these days and this has a wonderful side effect: in the right circumstances, small amounts of alcohol make me feel very merry quite quickly. We sat outdoors - probably a good idea as fencing is a rather sweaty sport. Half way through the first half-pint, I felt a happy glow as we discussed subject ranging from good fencing tactics to tactics for taking over the badminton players' part of the hall. Dynamite in shuttlecocks was discussed, as were posters casting doubt on the sexual prowess of badminton players. We NEED their part of the hall - our club is growing. Strong tactics are vital. Of course, some fencers play badminton as well - but not usually while fencing.

Eventually the laughter and jokes came to an end. I got a lift home. The bruises still don't hurt - evidently the pint of beer I enjoyed had an anaesthetic effect. And that's good too.


Note for connoisseurs of beer: the pub didn't have my favourite real ales but a half of Kroneneberg followed by a half of Cobra - very pleasant for a summer evening.

soggy shoes and suicidal snails

At the weekend I had two days with friends in Paris. I've been blogging about that elsewhere but there wasn't any fencing involved, although I did think the Place des Vosges looked like the sort of place where d'Artagnan and friends might hang out. It was sunny in Paris.



Back in England, everything is busy at work and it's raining. After the extravagance of Paris I couldn't justify the cab fare - I grew up reading Noel Streatfield's wonderful book Ballet Shoes, in which the splendidly independent and economical Fossil girls were brought up to "save the penny and walk" rather than taking the bus. So I set out to walk the mile and a half to fencing.

Before you get worried, I did make sure I could keep the swords dry. My feet were another matter. I could hardly wear the smart work shoes I need tomorrow, my walking boots take half an hour to lace and sandals or plimsoles are simply stupid in the rain. That left the cheap trainers with holes in. I squelched all the way there, with my kit stuffed into a back-pack, doing little jumps to avoid the snails on the pavement. The chief occupations of British snails seem to be sliding on pavements in the rain, being crunched into slimy, crackling messes and eating one another. French snails have a more interesting life according to Microcosmos but I suppose lots of them end up on a dinner plate.

I don't suppose I avoided all the snails but I did enjoy the wonderful smell of wet hawthorn. It's in full blossom just now - deep white or intensely red - and it's always been my favourite.

However the walk into the leisure centre across the hall was less happy. I left a damp trail - luckily the health and safety people weren't watching. Then I slipped out of the soaking trainers, revealing sodden fencing socks. Saving time by changing socks at home is not always a good idea. At least I hadn't tried to walk in full fencing kit.

The fencing was much as usual in that some things worked, some didn't. I was a little more successful that I'd expected and thought I was planning more (sometimes) and thinking more strategically. Unfortunately thinking strategically didn't always coincide with good hits. But I felt just a little fitter and faster than in previous weeks - probably the Paris effect.

And I got a lift home!