I am so bruised and bashed that I can hardly sit here and write to you.
Fortunately I am not at work, because I don’t think that I would much like being behind the wheel of a taxi. I am stiff and aching and weary. It is half past one in the morning.
We have just got home, and I remembered as an emergency that I had not written to you. Everybody else is getting ready for bed. I have had my shower, and I am sitting here feeling very quiet and contented, in an exhausted kind of way.
We have been doing Krav Maga.
After Mark’s terrible misadventure the other week we decided that he ought to practice defending himself a bit more. Also the children are going to be off into the world in a few months, and a bit of a refresher course in not being bullied seemed like a good idea.
I had thought that I would watch quietly and sew name labels into Oliver’s school uniform, but was prevailed upon by the rest of the family to join in.
I was a bit reluctant about this, because actually I don’t get into fights very often. Obviously I get into more fights than the average middle aged lady, regular readers will probably recall one or two, but on the whole I find that most fights can be avoided by putting on my best middle class accent and shouting at people to sit down and behave themselves at once.
Anyway, today I had got to go and learn how to get into proper fights.
When we got up we all piled into the camper van and chugged up to Whitehaven. This is not exactly far away, but a couple of hours drive, certainly in the camper van, because of having to drive all the way round the tiresome mountains and lakes that are cluttering up Cumbria.
The children’s Krav Maga teacher is softly spoken with the gentle blue eyes of a savage killing machine. He had arranged for the use of a squash court in the sports centre.
I have got no idea why people might want to get into fights on purpose. It jolly well hurts. We started off by learning how to block punches, what you do is put another bit of you in the way of somebody’s approaching fist. This is not an occupation full of jollity and merriment. My arms and hands are still sore even as I write.
We learned a bit about how not to get hurt by somebody else, and then we learned a very great deal about how to cause hideous pain should you actually need to. The teacher showed Mark a technique which he could have used to fight off the chap the other week: it was so staggeringly simple we couldn’t believe it, neither of us will ever get into that particular mess again.
We practiced a little dancing exercise which went: ‘jab somebody in the eye, kick them in the groin, punch them several times in the face’ until we were good at it. We practised cutting off somebody’s windpipe, and their major arteries, and how to avoid accidentally killing them whilst we did it. We learned how not to be strangled, I have a horrible feeling that Oliver is going to go back to school tomorrow with fingerprint bruising all over his neck that he will have to explain was done by his mother.
The last twenty minutes was spent learning how to stop somebody who is attacking you with a knife or a baseball bat. I liked this bit. He gave us padded sticks to fight one another with.
During my various life adventures I have spent quite a lot of time learning how to fight with a padded sword, and so this bit was unexpectedly easy. If I happened to have a rubber stick in my pocket nobody would ever bother me ever again. Better than that, now I know how to encourage somebody else to drop their own stick in order that I can use it myself.
I was not in the least sorry when it was over and we said our farewells. I like the Krav Maga teacher very much, but there are only so many times in a day that you can practise smashing somebody’s head into a wall or knocking them into unconsciousness with a well-placed chop. After a while you remember why you do knitting and not Krav Maga as a hobby.
It was all jolly handy. It is a wonderful thing to be able to walk about in the world without being frightened of anybody.
We were starving, so we bought a Chinese takeaway. We had food in the camper van, but it all seemed just too difficult to organise. We went to St. Bees and walked on the beach in the sunset, after which we all fell soundly asleep.
It was dark when we woke up.
We packed the camper van up wearily and chugged home.
I am longing to go to bed.
I am aching all over.
See you tomorrow.
