Dream 17 4 12

There are two of us who dress up in mediaeval costumes, a man and a woman, each for different reasons: the man in order to spread himself far and wide among women, and the woman – who is me, but not me – she dresses up to match the man.  When this proclivity to wear disguise is uncovered we agree to fight it out in a mock duel.  The man dresses up in his finest mediaeval garb but woman choses to look ordinary.

Our weapons are real.  Each bears a knife edged series of blades that jut out and run parallel to one another – a line of short stubby knives that can shred skin and cause deep wounds.  The other weapon is more  of a bludgeon, dark, black and heavy.

I, the woman, do not enjoy this battle but the man gets into it with pleasure.  He is not so good a fighter as me and at one point when I have my knife blade held against his stomach and it is merely a matter of jabbing it in, I decide to call a halt, not so much a truce, as a concession that he can win.

The game is over.