Having missed last Wednesday's kendo sesh due to the incomparable presence of one Mr David Mitchell, I decided to keep a somewhat low profile this time around. That is what I decided. But that's not what happened.
Sometime after the warmup, I got afflicted by a disease I have now identified as hyperhidrosis. And not just a little bit o' extra sweat round the pits or nothin'. It was streaming, streaming down the sides of my face for an good hour and a half. It was a fucking nightmare. My tops were soaked through, both of 'em, my fisherman's trousers were wet. I was a laughing stock. Stock was the bloody-well right word too. And yet it only seemed to come from my head. That's what I couldn't get. Why had this suddenly happened? It wasn't like I was training twice as hard as ever before, yet even the instructor commented "that's a lot of sweat there". Poor bloke put his hand on the small of my back at one point, and I'm sure it was not a pleasant experience.
Was it because I hadn't washed the shirt since the last kendo? Like, as if the hint of male in it from the week earlier had evinced from me some impossible reaction, drawing out all my reserves of seat? Not likely, really. Or because I had drunk a ship-load of water during the night before, which I needed to dispel? I mean, we'd had a fairly quiet Saturday night, a couple of DVDs and a pizza [Japanese Story, very good, Plots with a View, very bad]. Not even any wine for God's sake. Then again, I couldn't look any alcohol in the eye on Saturday—during the day that is, as I'd been spending most of the early hours of Saturday morning downing cheap champagne and stubbies of beer at a great rate of knots. In my white t-shirt, brogues, baggy jeans and a boxy jacket 80s costume. The costume went down well, as did the grog. As did the cheeky half. Which is what I have put this bizarre unstoppable- sweating episode down to. God aging is a cunt.
On the upside, we learnt passes. I spose that's what they're called, three steps and then a lunge into a men. Then two steps and a lunge into a men, and then one, and just the lunge—which can be quite difficult from your kamae. And then it was the turn of the good old kota, or wrist cut. By this stage, as well as looking like I'd just walked out of Port Phillip Bay (à la a clothed male Bo Derek, as opposed to that scene in Flash Gordon where Flash emerges from the slime with his blow wave intact), I had developed a slight pain from standing on the ball of my left foot for two hours—in other words, a blister on the sole of my foot. Diddums.
Then we're worded up: for last 10 minutes of class, we're going to face off against the seniors. I think every single beginner's stomach did an ickle backflip at that—we're gonna what? Are they gonna hit back? What if we fuck it up? Are we, like, duelling? Help!
But it was a piece of piss. And fun. Charging at the blue-clad seniors and whacking them on the helmet (men) with our men cuts. Yeah, fun. And then with some kota cuts to their blue-padded gauntlets (kota). Except of course for my unfortunate situation, and the fact that somewhere during my second or third pass, I felt that squelch on the ball of my foot and realised that, hey, my blister had burst. All yummy and pussy n bloody n stuff.
When it was all over, which wasn't long as we were only given 10 minutes, Mau, our instructor, gathered us all around to tell us that that usually doesn't take place till week 6 or 7. And we're on week 3. Hah! Does that mean we're shit-hot or what? I'll got for shit-hot, and try to ignore the excessive-sweating thing.
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