Still chomping at the bit and breakfastless (not a good way to be), I went into my first exam: a practical test in self-defence. My opponent was a big lad—I don't know his name—with about an extra foot in height on me and about twice the muscle tone.
I wasn't faring well and Lizzy's little speech was still eating away at me, so I'm afraid that when he caught my hair (inadvertently, I might add) and pulled a chunk out, I lost my rag. He found his wedding tackle on the end of my foot and as he doubled up, I finished the attack with a most satisfactory throw that hurled him hard across the room. As he gasped and groaned, clutching his jewels, the instructor yelled, "Foul!"
I threw my hands onto my hips, marched up to the tutor and scowled at him.
"How can that be a foul, for crying out loud!"
"The move was illegal," he explained calmly.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise this was a competitive sport. I thought this was practise for potential real-life situations so unless you've made every Klingon, Cardassian and Romulan et cetera aware of the rules of combat, there are no illegal moves as far as I can make out."
A roar of laughter from behind startled me. I turned. It was Urtok suitably attired in a white judogi.
"Someone's got out of bed the wrong side!" he mused, his bright Klingon eyes flashing.
I pulled a face.
"It's not excusable," protested the instructor.
"No," agreed Urtok, circling the poor man that was clambering to his feet. "It's not, but if Ms Terran wants to play that way, let's give her what she wants."
Needless to say, he made mincemeat out of me.