My mum looked a little insulted – not surprising, really, as I didn’t choose my words particularly well. I then felt guilty and agreed to go to yoga, even though it would cause me to miss Jeremy Kyle and Trisha (not just one but BOTH, I tell you!).The yoga class took place in a tiny church hall in Southall, and when I arrived I was taken aback to see that the average age of the other participants was about one hundred and three. After the warm-up stretches, the instructor uttered the words that struck a chill in my heart. Pair work. Yikes. I didn’t mind too much at first as I assumed I could be paired with my mum, but no such luck – apparently we needed to be paired with people of a similar height and size, and, because my mum is petite and light and I am enormous and heavy, our partnership was a no-go. So I was paired up with a complete stranger, and the exercises involved me having to press my back against her sweaty back, and also grab her bare foot and pull it into my chest.
To be fair, this poor woman also had to press her back into MY sweaty back, and grab MY manky foot, which can’t exactly have been a bag of fun for her; many years of wearing tarty high heels have left my feet looking like malformed stumps, with gnarled little Revlon-painted offshoots sticking out of each one. But we both grinned and bore it as best we could, and instantly sprang apart the minute we were told that the torturous pair work was over. My mum was in hysterics when she saw my face – I guess that, having raised three kids, taking hold of a stranger’s bare foot is nothing compared to having to wade waist-deep in dirty nappies and baby sick..As for the rest of the class – well, all I can say is, those ladies may be aged one hundred and three, but, my goodness, they’re hardcore.
They managed to twist themselves in ways that made my eyes water, gracefully holding each pose for ages, whilst I puffed, sweated, bled from the eyeballs and then collapsed.
Ok, so yoga isn’t for me. So it’s back to sitting on the sofa, drinking Jack Daniel’s and watching rubbish TV. Still, at least I am off the streets and not bothering too many people (apart from Nicky and Nimbus). And all this lying around is perfect training for me to become the nation’s favourite reality TV Olympic slob. The scary thing is, it’s not THAT far from the realms of possibility. All we need is a name for the show …
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