killer heels and the victory of ice

It's March tomorrow and the chef (still in Paris) reminds me that I haven't added to this blog all year. I blame the snow, the ice, demands of work and myself. England never expects real weather - that's why it's so often a subject of conversation.

But there was snow before Christmas, snow after Christmas, more snow, then more snow, and yet more snow may be on the way. I like snow but the cold and ice were wearing. I began to wish I hadn't put off the extravagance of double glazing and loft insulation, just because I had other bills to pay.

I was glad to be offered a lift to the fencing club dinner, especially since I wasn't sure about walking more than a few yards in my new (to me) shoes. The rules for the dinner said "cocktail dresses or dinner jackets." I possess neither. However one of the local charity shops had a dress that would do and I was glad to think of profits reaching the British Heart Foundation. The problem of matching shoes remained - until I remembered the elegant shoes my daughter bought on eBay which she'd attempted to sell me when she discovered they didn't fit. I decided to teeter elegantly - but the shoes didn't seem quite right for snow on ice.

Emerging tentatively from the car, I found the shoes more efficient than I'd expected. The sharp heels stabbed through the ice and I seemed surprisingly more secure than in the walking boots I'd been using for daytime excursions. Even at the end of the meal, after a glass or three of wine, I had few problems in crossing the icy pavement.

The following week, I left the house a little late on my way to work. I'd glanced out of the window on snowless roads and pavements but wore my walking boots just in case. Sturdy shoes are a wise precaution in these days. I took a few steps outdoors then slid, heavily, on my behind. A pain darted from my spine across my waist. The postman saw - or heard my scream - and came to help. "It's the black ice," he told me.

I looked again. Pavements and roads were shiny with a thin, lethal layer of ice.

Somehow I got up and, despite the pain, continued on my journey. After twenty minutes of careful sliding, I attempted to cross the railway bridge. The slope defeated me. Again I needed help. A couple of passers by attempted to aid my journey. The three of us linked arms, took a step, and slid backwards downhill together. The bridge was impossible and I worked out a detour involving departure from the nearer platform.

I fenced in the evening, despite the pain. I wasn't the only fencer to have slipped on the black ice. I felt lucky - Casualty had been full and the police occupied with collisions. I went on fencing - but carefully. I found cycling tricky and took taxis. The pain didn't go away.

It took me two weeks to go to the doctor and several days after that to get to the x-ray department. When the results came through, I had to see the doctor again, though they weren't labelled urgent. I'm not quite sure of the diagnosis though it included terms like "compression fracture" and "damaged vertebra." No-one's quite sure when the damage was done - some of it might have happened in my fall from the loft a couple of years ago.

The doctor recommended "low impact exercise." "Not swimming," he said, explaining that most people bend the spine doing breaststroke and that this wouldn't be good for me. He gave me a sheet of exercises. I've tried them - they would normally be simple but just now they hurt quite as much as the original fall, so I've given up.

I asked the doctor about fencing. "It's only once a week," I said, with my most persuasive and encouraging smile. "I'm not very good at it and I don't do that much." I took his smile for assent.

He then began one of those sentences which includes the words "considering your age." They're never good news. He's referred me for further tests for osteoporosis. But he doesn't think it likely. Nor do I. I've looked at the websites and the only indication I've got is a fracture - young people have those too.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying fencing even though I'm not doing as much as usual. I don't know whether I'll still be fencing this time next year. But I hope to be there when the chef finally returns from Paris this autumn, even if her current level of fitness means I'm unlikely to beat her.

the holiday problem

It was a very good Christmas dinner. There were lots of treats over the season, from Christmas cake to gluehwein. Because of the cold, I didn't go out much but sat at home, as close to a heater as I could manage. I had a few anxieties as the return to fencing approached. Some were to do with my general unfitness but others were connected with the more serious problem: would I still fit into my breeches. They are always slightly tight after washing and relax as I move in them but this time I feared a serious problem. I was right to worry. The phone rang as I was getting changed and it was hard to explain the strange noises caused by breathing in and tugging hard at the zip.

I decided not to bother with jeans over breeches and cycled off, white-legged, toward the leisure centre. After the effort to squeeze into my breeches, they seemed to shape themselves around me well enough. They haven't split so far, at least.

Fencing was another matter. I was plainly out of practice and prepared for the familiar sensation of fencing through jelly. I welcomed the pauses for conversation, hearing tales from the first competition of the year, in which club fencers had done well. Less frequent fencers had shared the anxiety about breeches although the Man man proclaimed proudly that he hadn't put on a single pound over Christmas. As I don't possess scales I don't worry about what I weight - it seems more important to know how much energy I have and whether my clothes still fit. And I certainly don't regret good holiday food and drink - the highlight was an excellent New Year's Eve dinner cooked by the chef, preceded by champagne and accompanied by fine wine.

Eventually I turned to fencing and was pleased that the good epeeists who turned up seemed happy to spend time encouraging me. While I was slow, I could, on occasion, be accurate and was happy to land a fair number of arm-hits. A particularly helpful left-hander worked on my en garde, which had slipped, as though he had never mentioned it before, He helped me to change my stance and I suddenly felt more comfortable. He even praised my attempts at lunges, which weren't very deep.

I fenced the four other epeeists who were free and then left early - I was tired and had an early start the following morning. But I determined to take more exercise.

For months I'd been turning down Sunday invitations so that I could do housework and work. But when, at Meeting, one of my friends suggested a swim, more out of habit than anything else, I said yes. As soon as I got home I packed my black Speedo with a towel, shampoo and shower gel - and wondered if I could remember how to swim. The lengths at the public baths are 25 metres and I set myself the goal of 30 lengths in the medium lane.

It was neither a disaster nor a triumph. I stopped after every six lengths for half a minute or so, and began to feel a little tired after 28 lengths. I did my 30, pulled myself out of the pool and headed to the showers, where I enjoyed the treat of some Christmas shower gel from my daughter. It got rid of the chlorine smell very nicely.

So I'm not fit and can only just squeeze into my breeches. But I'm still fencing.

breathe in!

It's been a long summer without fencing.

I planned to fence. Then there was something wrong with the floor in the leisure centre, which made August fencing impossible. The chef and I discussed meeting in a garden for a bout or two - not the chef's own garden, of course, because she's too self-conscious, but a garden she could borrow when friends were away. But it rained a lot and the dates didn't work out.

As the return to fencing approached, I was filled with trepidation. I'd meant to take exercise in the summer - and I had climbed over boats and walked on beaches and through cities. I'd even swum in the sea for quite some time - but it wasn't a vigorous swim and included quite a lot of floating. And the holiday, like most holidays, had included good food and alcohol.

Worrying about fitness was bad enough. I had to face an even more serious question. Could I still fit into my breeches?

I worried about it for days. Finally, the day before fencing, I knew I had to find out. It wasn't the easiest fit in the world but not too bad. I tried a small lunge. They didn't split. They felt snug and comfortable. I was suddenly confident about fencing.

So I took off my breeches and put on my skirt, grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and set out for dinner. The chef, preparing for her move to France, had invited me to a feast.

Life in the medium lane

The chef opted out of fencing this week. She'd intended to go but the lure of gin and The Apprentice on TV lured her away from the salle (OK,. the leisure centre). I haven't watched The Apprentice but feel I'm in a minority. It's discussed on Facebook, in all the papers and at fencing.

The hall was still crowded and there were eight other epeeists - all male - as well as sabreurs, foilists and a large number of beginners and intermediates. I was tired from work, worry and insomnia and didn't have the energy to seek out bouts. I did my best, accepting three offers, trying to keep my guard up. "Remember your elbow," a fencer hissed," as I attached my body wire.

I remembered my elbow and noticed the way it crookedly evaded the protection of the guard. I took a few hits, though not on my elbow, and also managed a few - I'm not sure how. A couple of hits to the forearm pleased me but too much of the evening passed in a blur of exhaustion.

For the past two weeks, fencers have been plagued by technical problems. Last week, the foilists and sabreurs were having problems with an electric box which decided it would work only for epeeists. A small group of fencers stood around making helpful suggestions about further tests that would locate the fault. This week, an epeeist was affected as two tiny screws flew out of the button at the end of his blade. After ten minutes in which several of us stared and patted the floor, both were located and the attempt began to re-attach the button. "This needs small hands," the epee's owner groaned, so I found a small intermediate fencer and asked him to help. I suspect it's the fencing equivalent of finding a child to go up a chimney.

Eventually the blade was restored to health, I had another bout and decided to leave in daylight. My arm was hurting - it still is, though there aren't many bruises. I think I must have been holding it at an awkward angle. Cycling was slightly tricky and at one point I swerved as I approached one of the sleeping policemen. (Note: "sleeping policeman" is a name given to a bump in the road that slows down the traffic.)

I think I'm moving as well as before the fall now but I still need opportunities for exercise without putting too much pressure on my foot - the "policeman's foot" continues. Today I had the chance to go swimming - a friend offered me a lift to the pool. I'm even more out of practice at swimming than fencing and decided beforehand that I'd set myself a limit of 30 lengths (750 metres).

I was tired at first but the tiredness receded as I swam alternate lengths of breast stroke and back stroke. It wasn't exciting like fencing - and I carry on worrying as I go up and down. There were fewer people in the pool than at a usual fencing session. My friend - also out of practice - headed, as usual, to the slow lane. Before I took up fencing I'd have been there too.

These days, I swim in the medium lane. Sometimes people overtake me - today two girls discussing their social lives easily overtook without pausing in their conversation. The medium lane makes its own demands. Sometimes I have to struggle to keep up. Swimming in the medium lane may not see much of an achievement but I'm pleased to be there.

towards a triathlon?

Most weeks, fencing is the only sport I do. Sometimes a friend offers me a lift to the swimming pool on Sunday, but I often say no as I'm so busy with work, housework or both. Last weekend I was fed up with work and housework so decided to take the chance.

It must have been months since I'd been to the pool. They've moved everything. Heading to the changing rooms, I hit a barrier and had to find a new route. That's going to confuse me for ages. It's the pool where I swam with the children when they still needed floats and armbands. Later I watched their swimming lessons and occasional galas there. There have been changes before - new locker-keys, for instance. But the route to the changing rooms has remained constant. I notice alterations, then forget about them. I'll probably hit the barrier again next time.

On my fourth length, my arms and legs were aching and I decided I'd had enough. By my tenth length, I felt I could go on for ever. But I stopped at 30 (750 metres) because I knew I was out of practice and wanted some energy left for the evening housework. 30 lengths is my minimum and I never do more than 40. It's not great but swimming that far - breast-stroke one way, back-stroke on my return - seems to do me some good.

I swim in the medium lane. On Sunday there were only two other swimmers in the lane - a father and small son. The father was faster than me when I did breast-stroke but had space to overtake. Every so often I paused politely at the end of the pool to let him go ahead. "I'm a bit too fast for the slow lane," I apologised and he smiled in friendly way, indicating that there was no problem.

Despite the heading, I'm not going to take up competitive swimming. I still haven't got the hang of the breathing and how to get my face wet without breathing in a lot of water. Swimming was, I told myself, a good way to get fitter for fencing.

Obviously I could aim at my own version of the modern pentathlon: epee (might get some hits), swimming (medium lane), running (for the bus), shooting (OK in fairgrounds where I sometimes win - otherwise I don't like guns) and riding (uncomfortable, not too sure about horses, but splendid opportunities for the jump from high window onto horseback, preceded by the swing from chandelier). But I've found something better.

Edinburgh University's Fencing Club offers an alternative triathlon: epee, drinking and chess. I'd like to give that a go. Come to think of it, I might be in with a chance.