densitometry and fencing badly

My back is beginning to feel less painful - and I'm continuing to fence, although not well. I'm working on the assumption that if, once a week, I stand up and wave my epée around, I won't forget what I know about fencing. I'm not sure it's working.

I tend to arrive at the lesiure centre tired - that's not new. But when tiredness is allied to caution, it's hard to summon up the determination and concentration to land hits on my opponents. Even when the coach stands still, extends his arm and asks me to hit it, I have a tendency to miss. Last week he began, thoughtfully, to move his arm into the path of my blade to ensure I hit the target occasionally. I didn't find it very encouraging - I think I used to be better than that.

Meanwhile, I was referred to the more distant hospital in town for a bone densitometry scan. The staff were helpful and I didn't have to wait. However, once I'd clambered into my hospital gown and dressing gown, the process of weighing and measuring began. I seem to be more than an inch shorter, presumably as a result of the compression fracture. I had noticed that my skirts and coats seemed a little longer than before - but I hate the thought that I'm shrinking.

Then came the various scans where I lay on a couch in odd positions while the scanner moved up and down. I was reminded of trips to the shoe-shop when I was young, It was a great treat to see my footbones in the x-ray measuring machine. I couldn't interpret the scans as they appeared on the technician's computer but it was reassuring to see that, at least, none of my vertebrae had fallen out. Sometimes I feel they are on the point of detaching themselves from my spine but they all look fairly secure, so far as I can tell.

Perhaps that will give me the courage I need at fencing. A good night's sleep would help too. And I wouldn't mind finding a way to get that missing inch back - but I'm not sure that fencing in high heels is the best idea.

Meanwhile I'm glad to report that members of the club have scored a number of successes (and trophies) in tournaments - mostly in sabre, unfortunately. Perhaps some will see the light and switch to epée, even if it's just for a couple of bouts a week.

Ouch!

I am getting old.

There's nothing exciting about that and most people reckon it's better than the alternative. However, I seem to be losing energy and enthusiasm.

There was a club message warning of less space than usual for fencing. It was the club's turn to play host to the local epée league and the beginners were taking part in their first match against a nearby club. Those of us not involved had the choice of queuing for the space not taken by the four electric pistes or watching the matches.

I walked to fencing. We've been lucky with weather compared to Cumbria but I felt too tired to cycle in the rain. I shouldered my backpack and sword bag and set out. I locked the house and turned the corner. Joe the cat emerged from the hedge and bounded hopefully beside me. I scooped him up and returned home. It's very hard to carry a cat as well as fencing kit but somehow I managed to lock him in. He wasn't pleased. Perhaps he'd overheard me talking about the mouse we saw the other week.

As I walked, I wondered whether I'd bother with the club championship this year. I may have been fencing a little better lately - with more desire to win - but the club championship is going to be a succession of defeats and I'm no longer sure I'll enjoy or learn from them. Besides, I have a lot of work to do, and I'm tired. d'Artagnan and Cyrano would have seen it differently but I've just started to read Les Miserables.

I determined to banish my autumnal gloom and, once in the leisure centre, started watching the first epée match. I arrived half way through and it wasn't going well. I joined the small group of spectators who clapped and called "good hit" encouragingly. I enjoyed watching the speed, accuracy and skill of the visiting fencers but could see that our team, while not doing badly, was not going to win. Every so often one of our fencers would win a few points in a row but the visiting fencers were far ahead and their progress was inexorable. They are top of the league and have won every match so far.

Before the second match, I managed some steam epée (not very well) but then returned to watch. The second team of opponents seemed less threatening, perhaps because of their youth and unconventional dress. One wore tracksuit bottom over his breeches while another wore jeans. Our team looked more cheerful - until the fencer in jeans gained a hit with a spectacular fleche. "That was a very fast fleche," someone said. Our team stayed ahead throughout but it never seemed easy. It looks as though the team will maintain its position at about the middle of the league.

Finally, as the visiting fencers packed their kit away, I had a chance to fence on the electric piste. I was uncomfortably aware of better fencers from another club watching curiously but I wanted to get in as much fencing as I could. My opponent had been away from fencing for a couple of months but he knew how to beat me. The few hits I landed tended to be doubles. I determined to try harder.

Suddenly I felt a pain in my left calf - not severe but more like a mild cramp. I tried to move forward with bent legs and it hurt more. I attempted another point. Then I stopped. I couldn't take up a fencing stance easily. Suddenly I was worried it would get worse. I ended the bout and walked away, hoping the sensation would vanish. It didn't. It was fine when I sat or stood but my calf ached when I moved.

I was glad I hadn't cycled - it meant I could accept a lift home.

Perhaps my calf will feel better tomorrow. Perhaps I'll fence in the club championship. I don't know.

advantages of rest

Football got in the way of my fencing plans the night Manchester United was beaten by Barca. I was late, the hall was half-empty and, although I got some fencing, it was all against the same opponent. I cycled away feeling disappointed and wishing I could find someone else to stab.

I was getting tired. My boss noticed and insisted I took some leave. Three whole days - and one of them a fencing day. For the first time in years I arrived at a fencing evening wide awake.

I felt the difference as soon as I had my epee in my hand. I was ready to fight and, if my charge down the piste was slightly ungainly, at least it took my opponents by surprise. That gave me an advantage and I need every avantage I can get.

Everyone I fenced commented on the change. I may not have beaten anyone but at times I came near. There were clumsy moments but I also achieved sufficient hits to the forearm and knee to give me new confidence. I still need to work on accuracy but nothing saps accuracy more than self-doubt.

I was exhausted but buzzing with happiness as I cycled home. If only every fencing night could be like that. If only my next fencing night could be like that. But it seems unlikely. A day of meetings and form-filling is not the best preparation for swordplay. I bet d'Artagnan and Cyrano never had to fill in lengthy forms stating how far they had fulfilled their aims and objectives, what they had learned from feedback and whether their duelling achievements constituted transferable skills.

stabbing no-one

I planned to fence. Even when I realised I was ill, and couldn't get to work, I reckoned I could stay in bed all day, then get up in the evening. Rested and miraculously cured, I'd be able to stab people again. At 6.00 p.m. I lay asleep and wondered if I could manage it.

It was only a virus - one that causes sore throats. slight temperatures and acute weariness. My legs ached. I'd been in work the day before and knew I must be there the day after, for a 12-hour day. But I'd done the sensible thing. I had taken paracetemol and slept. Surely I was well enough to get up, climb onto my bike, cycle to the leisure centre and indulge in a little light stabbing.

My legs disagreed. Half an hour later I'd got no further than sitting on the side of the bed. I thought I might get downstairs - just not yet. My throat ached and my head was hot. I gave up.

I managed supper and more sleep. And the next day I managed my 12-hour day. (But it's probably just as well that no-one caught me having a little extra sleep on the office floor between meetings).

arrivals and parries

"An epeeist, obviously," I declared, looking at the new arrival.

"Sabre, sabre, sabre," chorussed the sabreurs.

"She'd better start with foil," a more thoughtful fencer suggested.

The new arrival didn't state her opinion. She didn't even open her eyes. At ten days, weighing just over six pounds, the future fencer slept in her father's arms. In her small pink dress and long white socks she wasn't really dressed for combad. As blades clashed in the packed hall, the new arrival was passed from fencer to fencer. Foilists and sabreurs discarded their lames so that the rough metallic surface wouldn't scratch her. Her mother, more familiar with fencers than motherhood, enjoyed the chance for conversation, I think.

It was a while before I dragged myself away to the epee class. I was enjoying the sight of so small and contented a human being. But epee called.

The usual coach was away so one of the most experienced coaches took over. He led us through a return to basics: hitting to wrist, forearm and body - first from standing, then with movement and then including a parry. My accuracy and recall wavered as I tried to include a parry to quarte before hitting the chest. How could I miss so large a target? I wondered. My blade began to glide over the forearm instead of attaching. The coach took me through it again and again until, finally, I managed to land all my hits in sequence.

There's something reassuring about getting something right, even if it's simple and even when I've had a great deal of practice. I moved on to a couple of bouts - and for once I wasn't feeling tired.

I wasn't sure I'd learnt anything in the last weeks of coaching. The problem didn't lie with the coach but with my own exhaustion - how could I have taken anything in? But I was cheered by a lucky wrist-hit, in which, without premeditation or much control, I angled my blade that it slid down to graze my opponent's guard. And I found myself moving better than for a while and - in combat - putting the new parries into practice.

My attempt at a parry in seconde wasn't graceful but it took my opponent by surprise. This gave me a chance to move my blade back up and land a chest hit. Further encouraged by my success, I began to vary my tactics. My opponent was a better and more experienced fencer than me - he'd taught me in my early days of epee when no coaches were available - but although he landed more hits than me, I was doing far better than usual. I accelerated forward with a circular parry and landed a hit. Then I started retreating to see if I could catch him as he attacked. I couldn't - at least, not the first time, but the second time I tried it the box showed a double. I tried the parry in seconde again - and again scored a hit. It was feeling good.

I was tired at the end of the evening - properly tired, with the kind of physical exhaustion that leads to a good night's sleep. As for the new arrival, she left when I did, having slept through everything.

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.

missing the moment

"It's - - - ," the coach said.

I didn't catch the word and wouldn't have understood it anyway.

"That's Polish," he explained. "In French it's 'a propos.' In English it's - something like - the moment. You have to find the moment and take it."

The coach was explaining the remise which was. he said, at the heart of epee. He'd already described epee as a real duelling weapon with such enthusiasm he warmed us all. We almost forgot that his chief loyalty was to sabre. We'd warmed up with hits to the forearm while moving, then practised taking the blade and binding in it in a counter-attack. (There's not much defence in epee. Even retreats are conducted with an arm outstretched, blade to lead ready for the slightest chance to dart forward for the hit.) But the remise is trickier. Instead of sticking close to the opponent's blade, it is, as our coach explained it, a matter of looking for the split second when an opening appears, changing the line of attack from a standing position, and going for the hit.

I couldn't get it. I was too slow. The moment was too brief - I needed closer to a minute. Finally I managed a couple of clumsy hits in a different line, well aware that the coach was in slow motion.

Worse followed. We were to attack, redouble, redouble and hit - at speed. This meant a succession of lunges - reprise after reprise - down the length of the piste. I don't achieve beautiful low lunges and I'm not fast at moving in and out of a lunge. There were four of us. Two have been fencing epee longer than I've been fencing any weapon and the third is a young, graceful, experienced foilist looking to add another weapon. They sped down the piste, moving in and out of lunges till, with the final stretch at the end of the piste, they landed their hits. Then it was my turn.

I lumbered up and down, with the shallowest lunges I dared, fearing my right knee would give way as I tried to recover.but determined, at least, to reach the end of the piste without falling over. It wasn't much of ambition but at least I stayed upright and hurled my blade roughly in the direction of my waiting coach. Not surprisingly, he hit me first.

And then the coaching session was near its end and the coach was promising more difficult tasks in the future. We ended with a quick round of one hit epee. To my surprise, I managed a single hit - on the Man man - and then it was over.

The foilist donned her lame and joined the historian on the piste. (His appearance as a foilist was startling but it's better for his injured elbow.) There was a queue for the electric pistes and the hall was still crowded. I invited the doc to a quick steam bout, assuring him it could end when the Man man secured a box. I just wanted some real fencing before going home. The bout was brief but pleasing.

Then, still tired, I left the hall. Long days at work are still exhausting me. The cold hit me as I mounted my bike. I ascribed it to the tiredness until I got home and tried to open the wheelie bin. The lid had frozen shut. The next day, it was warmer. It snowed again.

missing

My blade glided harmlessly past my opponent's forearm towards his heart. I accelerated forward - and missed. I didn't just miss his heart. I missed his chest altogether. My blade slid under his arm and stabbed the air, as if I were taking part in a peculiarly incompetent stage fight. Then he hit me without difficulty.

Luckily the evening wasn't all as bad as that, though I was still exhausted from the previous week at work. The chef said she was tired too and we took a break when the coach taking footwork practice kept us in an exhausting routine so step, lunge, reprise faster, step forward, step back, lunge, reprise faster, step back. My calves and thighs hurt after only three or four sequences. I'm still not as fit as I was before succumbing to policeman's foot and then falling from the loft.

I don't think the chef can have been all that tired because I managed only a few hits against her. She was so much faster and more accurate than me that I felt compelled to mention that I had, at least, beaten her at Scrabulous. (It doesn't happen often - I won one of three games we were playing simultaneously and she won the other two. )

The chef's lunge gets longer every week. I suspect mine has a tendency to look more like an energetic shuffle. The chef is probably helped by her energetic cycling and regular visits to the gym. She's taken up running too, which seems to involve an obstacle course of geese, gooseherds and children's tricycles as well as congratulatory admirers. She duggested I join her but it doesn't seem a very good idea. Apart from continuing pain in my heel, I'm pathetically slow. She'd probably do at least two circuits to my one - if I managed one.

I did, however, make a discovery. The chef is good at defending against hits from above, because she's one of the smaller fencers in the club. While it seems obvious that, as the taller fencer, I should be able to hit her from above, I have more success hitting from below her arm. My best hits were to her thigh as she advanced or began to lunge. (It was probably a mistake to tell her this after we had fenced.)

I managed more hits against my second opponent of the evening - a better and taller fencer. There were disasters, like missing his chest, but I also managed a decent number of arm hits. I thought he was probably letting me hit him but the chef reckoned he was tired. That made me feel better.

After two opponents the tiredness was the real victor of the evening. I wanted to leave while I could still cycle home without swerving or falling off. The chef and I left together. and I got home safely, although I did swerve from time to time. Unfortunately my plans for next week mean I'll miss the one-hit epee (again). I was sorry to realise that but pleased to find that August fencing was suggested. As I said goodbye and "see you in a fortnight," I looked forward to more chances of practice - I'm beginning to feel almost fit. Alas! - I heard a day later that the floor of the hall is to be replaced. It will be out of use for some weeks. That probably means no fencing till September.

I'll try to work on lunges, speed and accuracy - on my own. It doesn't feel quite right. Fencing isn't the same without the immediate inducement of stabbing somebody.

stabbing - 1, poetry - 0

I had to make a decision last Wednesday: fencing or poetry.

I'd been commended in a poetry competition. That meant I didn't get any money but I was invited to the awards ceremony. There was a possibility of free drinks and nibbles and a certainty of conversation about poetry. On any other night of the week, I'd have been happy to hang out with the poets. But fencing night is different.

There are, of course, fencers who are poets. I'd like to model myself on Cyrano de Bergerac as far as that's concerned. But I've yet to fence while improvising a ballade. (I'm not very good at ballades.)



I'd have enjoyed the conversation of the poets. The winning poems were excellent and deservedly placed above mine. On 23rd October I was poet of the day on the website associated with the competition, but my sestina has now been consigned to the archive.. I'm in very distinguished company.**

For a few minutes I wondered whether I should opt for an evening of poetry. But I was too tired and the award ceremony was in Derby - a bus or train journey away. I was so exhausted I wasn't sure how I would get to fencing, let alone lift an epee. Luckily a taxi was parked at the beginning of my route. I'm not sure I'd have made it on foot. I staggered out of the taxi and into the hall, glad to have missed most of the warm-up. But as usual, once I'd picked up a sword the tiredness fell away.

Once again I started with foil. I'm not a natural foilist but I'm beginning to think that a knock-about with foil helps my epee skills. Although the rules are different, fencing with foil helps me to focus and the constraints seem to prepare me for the greater freedom of epee-fencing. Perhaps the swimming heped too.

It wasn't a great night of fencing but some of my hits landed well. I may be the weakest epeeist in the club but I seem to be making progress again. And there was good conversation too.

On the walk home, I was exhilarated. An evening of poetry or an evening of epee? There was no contest.



** Anyone who works out which poem is mine may be interested to know that it was written as an exercise a couple of years ago, following a set form and set end-words. The repeated words and the form came before the subject.

a bit better

I went back to fencing. My son was with me. He's been out of fencing for a while. He challenged me to a bout at foil, which I haven't tried for months. Still, I picked up the weapon - always strangely light after epee - and looked at my son. Last time I fenced him he was smaller than me. Today he's taller.

I told myself that meant a larger target area. Unfortunately it also meant longer arms - and he's faster than me. We didn't have a ref. so argued about right of way from time to time. However I looked at it, he beat me.

But once I was fencing epee I felt a bit more comfortable than last week. A few of my hits went where I intended. The arm-hits may not have been great but they felt like an achievement. Unfortunately I took a few wrist-hits - not hard, but I've got to work out what's going wrong.

I have fewer new bruises this week. The epee coach will have time to work with me in a few weeks, when the beginners are more independent. I'm still unfit, still busy at work, still sleeping badly.

Quite a lot of fencing is like this - not doing too well but trying and hoping. It's better than not fencing.


On another topic, I'm worried to find that Craig Murray's blog has been removed by its hosts under threat of legal action. There's a little more about it HERE. The weblinks give further information.

fencing badly

I can't think of anything I did well at fencing this week. I was tired and unfit, which didn't help, but sometimes I can get a decent hit or two in those circumstances. This week, if someone had placed a brick wall in front of me and told me to hit it, I'd have missed.

We began the warm-up with gentle jogging in a circle, responding to commands to put right, left or both palms on the floor, or to change direction. My breeches were tight, I was tired and I cheated by scraping the floor with my finger-tips. Even the balance exercise seemed hard and my co-ordination was weaker that possible. Footwork was hampered by the fear my breeches would split. Then it was time to wait for a piste and, finally, to fence.

My first bout was disastrous. Then the expert fencer of last week decided to be kind by lowering his arm to provide a target. The gesture lowered my confidence to somewhere below zero. I missed - again and again - till I was furious with myself. I asked him to stop and fence properly. He did, and I took some pretty nasty bruises which still keep me from sleeping.

I accepted a couple more invitations to fence, feeling slow and stupid, with predictable results. Eventually a patient opponent corrected my en garde position and made me lunge. He promised tp help me practise my lunges next week, at the same time as he coaches his small son. I need it. I need coaching, concentration and an improbably level of fitness.

At least my breeches didn't split. And I don't plan to give up just yet.

it must be the football

I hear England beat Andorra 3 - 0. This isn't a great achievement. Given England's recent form, there was a certain amount of anxiety. I fear some epeeists might have been watching.

I was the only epeeist for most of the evening. I fenced foil - very unsuccessfully. How does anyone cope with those little, light fencers with their tiny target areas? I lost my first bout 10-1, after which my opponent helpfully pointed out that she had found it very easy to hit me because I was using an epee en garde position. I corrected this in my next bout and did quite a bit better, losing only 10-6.

I hadn't expected to do well at fencing since the tiredness is getting worse - it's that stage of term. I started to ache half-way through footwork practice and wondered whether fencing at all was wise. But even foil is better than nothing. (Meanwhile, the number of sabreurs is increasing - but I'm really not a sabreuse.)

Luckily the evening ended with an opportunity for epee against one of the newest foil coaches, who was happy to get some epee practice in after his pupils had departed. The coach started fencing when I did, didn't really enjoy competitions, but he's become an excellent coach and is on the way to being a good epeeist too).

Switching from foil to epee was terrific. Suddenly I could manage the occasional wrist hit and my point control was improved. For a little burst, I was landing hits with ease ... before the tiredness hit again. Still, it's left me with little achievements to remember - and some preparation for next week. We're having another one-hit epee competition - there's an Easter egg for the winner. Given my previous form in one-hit epee, I think my best hope is one hit. One hit in the whole competition, that is. It's amazing how well other people fence when ownership of a chocolate egg is at stake.

Meanwhile, I'm relaxing with half a glass of wine (Gewurtztammer, from the Alsace). I'm drinking to Jim's new job and to wish Beth a stunning and deserved victory over B.C. Victoria Transit . It's time Victoria Transit realised that their passengers include human beings who use wheelchairs, who have the right to be treated as human beings. I'm very cross. I want Victoria Transit to know that this story has reached Europe and at least one British woman with a sword is very angry indeed.. On a happier note, I'm also celebrating because a friend has just got out of hospital earlier than expected. That half glass of wine is doing a lot of work ... Cheers!


P.S. I've added the blog my friend Kate has started to the side bar. It's called "Kate's blog". It's worth reading, even though Kate doesn't fence. She sails and does archery, as well as blogging on a wide range of subjects and taking pictures, mostly in Wales. I hope that one day Kate and I will be companions in non-violent, radical piracy.

fencers on ice?

It's cold, I was tired and didn't fence much or well today. But I enjoyed what I did though I frequently hit short or failed to attach the point. I knew it wouldn't be a good fencing day so enjoyed the warm-up and decided to look on every hit as an achievement. But it was embarrassing to find that I was so tired that, when we tested blades before fencing on the electric piste, I'd forgotten to plug in my body-wire. (And it took me a minute or two to work out what was wrong!)

A woman foilist had missed club night last week to go skating at the ice rink. And I suddenly realised there was an unexplored sporting and filmic opportunity. Imagine the aggressive and enthusiastic opponent trying to fleche while skating - or the difficulty of the ballestra on ice.

I can see that it would be a minority sport but it's hard to see why it hasn't been used in film - at least, not so far as I know. Just imagine the scene: Robin Hood, pursued by the Sherrif of Nottingham, runs onto a frozen lake in the middle of Sherwood Forest. He draws his sword and fences the Sherrif on ice. Or, better still, The Three Musketeers could include an additional scene in which the Cardinal and his men visit an ice fair on a wide, frozen river. Naturally, d'Artagnan, Aramis, Porthos and Aramis don skates and prepare to fight ...

And now I hope that someone will enlighten me about a series of fencing on ice films - or a salle at which fencers train simulatneously in skating and epee. It could come in handy .. (you never know)

fencers at a wedding, fencer washing up

I went to a wedding last Saturday. The bride was my niece and my daughter was a bridesmaid. My son wore a suit and a red (revolutionary tie).

As we sat in the church, waiting for the bride (only half an hour late and so beautiful it was worth it), we discussed fencing, of course. There were four of us sitting in a row: me (epeeist), son (foilist), daughter's boyfriend (sabreur), children's cousin (foilist who fancies sabre). We didn't get so far as demonstrating techniques as the Mendelssohn began in time to stop us, but we passed the time in happy comparison of clubs and techniques.

I'd like to report that my fencing was better, especially since I arrived in my marvellous black and gold club hoodie, but I was so tired that my arm ached when I merely held a foil and epee was exhausting. I didn't do much as serious fencers were preparing for a big tournament. I did win a bout 5-4 but I can't work out how since I was finding it hard to control the point. Possibilities include: a kind opponent, luck, or moves so wild that they were totally unpredictable.

I also challenged a teenager to a bout and he ran away. So I did something I'd always wanted to do - I took his glove from him (he was hiding behind it at the time) and struck him gently across the face. I had to explain that this was a mortal insult and he had no choice to but to fight me. I thought of asking him to name his friends (as seconds) but an awful stopped me - it might be his right to choose the weapon and feared he'd prefer foil. I ought to get the etiquette right from all the novels I've read but I wanted to fence some more epee.

I'd like to report that I beat the teenager, especially since he tried to bribe the ref (she said 20p wasn't enough and that she didn't like sweets). She didn't disqualify him. He won 5-3. He jumped up and down with delight in a stagily villainous way while I tried to scowl.

Still, I got some fencing in.

Meanwhile, the spring in my first epee is playing up - I NEED all my points to register. I may be jnxed as the dishwasher isn't working any more. "Not worth repairing," was the verdict of the armourer, who deals with plumbed appliances professionally. But I hope a little care and attention will persuade my dishwasher to clean my dishes again..

And now it's time to slave over the sink.