shoes, blisters and taking the blade

I was late to fencing. My train was late home, there was no lift, so I stuffed my kit into backpack and sword bad and set out to walk.

I haven't yet replaced the old trainers with holes, which finally lost all efficiency. It was wet, so sandals wouldn't do. I thought about walking boots, but for some reason could find only one. So, rather than wear the white trainers I keep for fencing, I put on my blue work shoes. After all, the heels aren't that high.

By the time I'd left the house, returned for the things I'd forgotten and set out again, I realised I was going to be late. With only a few yards covered, my feet began to hurt. I stuck out my thumb in a hopeful attempt to hitch. After all, if any driver proved dangerous I did have three swords with me.

The drivers didn't stop. They must have thought a middle-aged woman with large rucksack and three swords was most likely mad. I could see their point. I staggered on.

It's school half-term so there was plenty of space in the hall. Unfortunately some of the space was caused by the absence of epeeists. There were only two other epeeists: male, experienced fighters, taller than me and with a longer reach. I managed a few hits, possibly because they were being kind. They managed quite a few - but this week most of the hits I took were painless, which was an improvement.

I struggled quite badly in the second bout. "You have to take my blade," my opponent said helpfully. I tried in the approved manner - forte to foible. Every time I tried he still managed to control my blade, force it into a circle, take it out of the way and land a hit.

"So what do I do?" I asked. "Exercise to strengthen my wrist?" It didn't seem likely I could make my wrist that much stronger.

"Aim here," he said, helpfully, indicating his wrist just behind the guard.

"But you take my blade first," I complained. "And anyway, I'm already trying to be accurate."

"You could win on speed," he encouraged.

"But I don't do fast. I think this is as fast as I get."

My opponent smiled.

OK readers - any ideas?

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!