waterbottles and library books

If there are any readers left out there after my long absence, I apologise. I'm back. I shall try to post more frequently.

When New Year arrived, I contemplated giving up fencing. I was feeling my age. Compared with some veteran fencers I know, I was feeling much more than my age. I expect this to be a regular theme now. I have been fencing for several years and I doubt I can get faster. I don't learn as quickly as I did when I was young - and I was never quick at grasping physical manoeuvres.

I went to the club Christmas dinner. It was an enjoyable event. A splendidly large and shiny sword was presented to the Mistress-at-Arms - a new trophy since it's new to have several women competing in all three weapons. All the time I was thinking "This might be my last fencing occasion." I wasn't sure I had the energy or determination any more.

The following week saw me spending three hours in a long, tedious and not entirely pleasant meeting at work. It was hours till the first fencing club evening of the year. As I looked at my colleagues and listened to their words I was struck with the thought, "I want to stab someone." Since duels in the workplace are almost certainly against health and safety rules (and I didn't even have my epée with me) I thought it best to head to fencing. Just to be on the safe side, I signed up for another term.

My fencing has been erratic, even by my standards. Every so often I land a series of hits that please me - or even reach the score that is my secret target. I've had two or three one-to-one coaching sessions - one when I was so tired I could take nothing in and simply gave way to laughter at my own incompetence but at other times I've made some slight progress which pleases me.

Two coaches have attempted to instruct me in the ceding parry (which I persist in thinking of as the "seeding parry"). It's a splendidly strategic piece of swordplay in which the fencer appears to give in to an opponent's strength before suddenly changing the direction of the blade and launching an unexpected attack. On a good day, I can manage it in slow motion two times out of three. I don't think this is quite good enough to try using it at full speed in a bout but it's good to know how it works and perhaps, one day, the opportunity to use it will present itself. Meanwhile I continue to work on stance, lunges, point control - all the basics that drift if I don't keep thinking about them.

Work is, for me as for many people, a perpetual source of anxiety. In the current climate of cuts most people know that their jobs are at risk, whether directly or indirectly. Coming home after a particularly tough day, I consoled myself with the prospect of an evening's consensual stabbing. I got as far as changing into my breeches when I was presented with a disaster - my water bottle, which had spent the week in my back-pack with the rest of my kit, had leaked. My breeches weren't just damp - they were sodden. Nonetheless, I tried struggling into them in the hope that no-one would notice. They might, I reasoned, dry off as I cycled to the leisure centre.

This attempt at self-deception didn't last long. If I wore the wet breeches I would be dripping over the leisure centre floor. I wondered idly whether it would be safe when wired up for electric fencing but couldn't make up my mind. I struggled out of the breeches and laid them on the radiator in the vain hope that they'd dry in ten or fifteen minutes. They didn't. Later inspection of my water bottle showed that the thread on the screw top had perished in some way - it was no longer possible to tighten it.

I made up for my disappointment in fantasy fencing. Shocked by the current threats to public libraries, which have been my refuge and source of inspiration since childhood, I rejoined the local library and took part in the national Save Libraries day. Looking for books to borrow, I chanced on Isabel Allende's novel Zorro. I remembered thinking I'd like to read it when it came out - I've enjoyed other novels by Allende - but never got round to it. It's my current choice of bedtime reading and highly enjoyable, if a little sketchy on the finer details of fencing technique.

I also came across the best use of fencing in an advertisement. It helps that it includes Zinedine Zidane. Some people have suggested that it isn't really Zidane fencing or even that there's a switch from epée to sabre in the middle of the sequence. I refuse to believe any of it. Why wouldn't Zidane take up fencing now that he's retired from football? - and of course he'd be an epéeist.



Thrilled by all this fantasy fencing, I returned to the fencing club with renewed vigour - and a new water bottle. I bought it in a sale immediately after our local Save Libraries event, which attracted 400 people in addition to the 300-400 regular Saturday morning users - not bad for a suburban public library. I haven't seen a library so crowded since the days when I was sadly dependent on a mobile library which came on wheels and wobbled when anyone entered it.

I must have been over-excited by the prospect of saving libraries as I allowed the chef to persuade me into the purchase of a water bottle with a slightly unsuitable slogan. It seemed funny at the time but on club nights I find I'm hoping no-one will notice it and try to keep it in a position where the delightfully decorated message on the bottle faces the wall.

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.

Epee practice

Parts of Britain are succumbing to xenophobia at present and Eastern Europeans have become a particular target. Recently a number of Poles have arrived, mostly young people taking up jobs for a year or so. We Brits are equally entitled to move around the European community. It's a tempting idea, even at my age, but I'm not sure I'll find it so easy to get work abroad when the children have left home. My language skills don't match those of other Europeans. Halting conversational French and tourist Italian aren't good enough for an employer, though I'd be happy to work at improving them.

Perhaps I could take up Polish. That's suddenly become more feasible as a new, Polish epeeist has arrived at out club. She's young, small and slender - and very fast. She's pretty and friendly too - nobody could possibly be prejudiced against someone so open and out-going. "I'm out of practice," she told me. "I haven't fenced for ten years. And I've only done epee." She made reference to competitions and years of training. Ten years ago she was sixteen.

She was fun to fence, even though I was out-classed. I got the occasional lucky hit - probably because she was out of practice - and the worst bruises I've had in a while. I learnt very quickly which areas I was failing to defend. Her guard was excellent - her whole forearm out of sight - and her parries lightning fast. I think she's a little shocked about how infrequently the club meets - "only twice a week?" she asked, disbelieving. Of course, the keenest and best fencers join more than one club. But I think she's accpeted that I'm a once-a-week fencer. I must seem very old to her, and to many of the young fencers. And that, of course, is an advantage. I can get away with more.

I found another new opponent too - a foilist with a startling black beard and moustache. He would have looked like a model for a villain from in a child's dressing-up kit were it not for his friendly smile. He fenced like an eighteenth-century duelist, sideways on. At first I found him almost impossible to hit. Then I realised that, as he moved his sword arm, to attack me I could reach his back - not all the time, but I got three or four hits. He wasn't sure how to deal with that. Again, he's an out-of-practice fencer, which suits me fine.

It was a good evening without being a great one. I liked the mix of fencing familiar and unfamiliar opponents. There was time for conversation between bouts and knock-abouts. My son is over his virus (he gave it to his sister, who gave it to her boyfriend - and his mother) so he got some good fencing in too.

Next week it's the one-hit epee contest. The chocolate santa has already been bought as a prize - donated by the club president who remains the best bet to win it. I'm taking vitamin pills and drinking orange juice in the hope of fending off colds and flu. However low my ambitions, I want to compete. I managed three hits last time - I doubt I can do more. I probably shan't do as well. But I'll be there anyway, doing my best. If I have a few moments, I'll practise lunges, which may get me some odd looks at work.

restless fencer looks for a mirror

I was late to fencing and had to leave early. One hour and ten minutes just isn't enough.

All the careful arrangements for lifts fell apart so I rang for a taxi. There were none available. After trying a list of cab firms without luck - what was going on? and why wasn't I invited? - a friend gave me and my son a lift. I'd missed the warm-up and the club was swarming with sabreurs, whose slashing movements take up (I'm convinced) more room than foil or epee.

The good news was the return of an epeeist who has been unwell and off work for the past eight weeks. I thought this might affect his fencing but, while he may be rebuilding stamina, his accuracy was devastating. Perhaps he spent eight weeks in bed practising wrist hits on visitors.

I fenced two other opponents with a little more success, still not managing a stance in which my wrist was well-guarded. "Practise with a mirror," I've been advised, but we don't have any big mirrors - our biggest is about a foot square and awkwardly placed in the kitchen between the cooker and the saucepans. That's probably not the best place to brandish an epee. There are a couple of mirrors on bathroom cabinets but no space for a lunge. And then there are a couple of small mirrors (about four inches square). I suppose I could hang one on the raspberry bushes that are taking over the garden - or even on the plum tree - but I wonder what the neighbours would say if they saw me with a sword in the garden. Might they think it's a new technique for cutting the lawn or trimming the hedge? If not, an ASBO seems inevitable.

I had less fencing than I wished, but I probably had a better evening than my son, whose back is troubling him. The doctor says it's a result of growing rapidly; he's suddenly taller than me (only just) and his voice has deepened. Growing an inch a month for six months causes odd aches which makes fencing tricky. He did his best, but left early and walked home in the warm Spring night.

Since the curtailed club night, I've been tired and restless. I'm busy at work, but too much time is spent sitting at my desk. I look for excuses to prowl the corridors or go up and down stairs. I'd quite like to stab a few colleagues (consensually and competitively). But it's probably not a good idea. Mind you, there are some good big mirrors in the ladies' toilets. Now there's a thought.