It was a warm summer evening, and I was at home in Sheffield, just about to get ready for bed. My 10-year-old daughter, the only other person in the house, was fast asleep. The windows were open, and for a brief moment I thought I heard someone moving about in the garden, but put it down to the odd way sound carries in hot weather. I was upstairs when I suddenly heard a loud bang. I looked out of my bedroom window, and saw a man in a hooded top, trying to force the back door. I shouted at him, but, instead of scarpering, he just swore at me and carried on battering the door.

It is unusual for burglars to break into a property knowing there’s someone inside who has seen them. I ran downstairs, grabbed the phone and took it into the kitchen, dialling 999 while watching the guy through the little glass panel as he struggled to force the door. I was on the point of giving my address when one powerful blow caused the door frame to splinter, and I knew he’d be in with the next one. I said, “Too late!” and dropped the phone.

I didn’t know he’d be armed, but thought he might be, so I dashed to the cupboard under the stairs – there were a lot of garden tools in there that could have been handy. But, as it happens, I used to collect old British swords and I still had a 1796 British light cavalry sabre. It’s a fearsome-looking thing, and I hoped that the sight of it would be enough.

The burglar and I entered the kitchen from opposite sides. He slammed in through the back door, brandishing a length of timber like a baseball bat. His eyes were wild, and I guessed he was on drugs. I noticed a quick shift as he registered the fact that I had a sword, and he turned and bolted the way he’d come. I thought that meant this episode was finished.

I couldn’t lock the door behind him (because he’d bust it), so I ran out into the garden to make sure he had left the premises. At this point, he changed his mind and began an attack, aiming blow after blow with his club at my head and shoulders. I was using the sword to block the blows, while also feigning attack.

I was terrified, but I was also very aware that I probably shouldn’t really hit him with the sword; that I should act proportionately. The problem was, I didn’t know how far he was going to go – I don’t think he knew, either.

The fight went on, with me ducking and blocking these flailing blows, moving forwards all the time to get him away from the house. I started thinking that any moment he would realise I was not trying to hurt him. Then what was I going to do? I was exhausted.

Then, to my relief, he just took off. I was walking slowly back into the house when I heard him behind me. I turned to see him running at full tilt with his arm raised, ready to strike. This was the only time I used the sword as a weapon, swinging at his chest while raising my other arm to block his blow. I got a cut arm and he was injured in the chest – not seriously, because the sword was blunt. Then he was gone again.

I went back into the house, totally worn out. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my daughter had slept through the whole thing. I phoned the police again, and they soon sent an armed unit. Surprisingly, they had the burglar in their van already. He’d more or less run right into them. They’d heard a lot of the incident over the phone, which was still lying on the floor.

After several months, the intruder pleaded guilty; he was sentenced to three and half years for aggravated burglary. It took me a while to get my sword back – first, I had to confirm that it was not a Samurai sword (certain curved swords are illegal). There was some discussion about who should pay the postage; the police thought I should, but I explained that would mean me paying part of the cost of the investigation of a serious crime of which I had been the victim. Eventually, they saw my point and sent it in the post, covered in bubble wrap.

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