Yogi Bare

I’ve spent all day collating years worth of writings. The memoir now has at least nine different titles.
The job is putting it all together then sending it off to my agent, writing more bits and editing what I have.
It’s 8.10 and my eyes feel like brussels sprouts that have been overboiled. It’s all that looking at the screen and trying not to be tooooo self critical.

In between all that I have been trying to sort out care for my mother. 88 and still going strong but getting more confused by the day. Why is that young doctors are given the skills of tourniquet tying but have about as much bedside manner as a scabby gerbil. I asked one expert whether or not I should shout to get what I want. ‘Oh! yes’ she said ‘The louder you shout the more they listen’ what an indictment eh?
There is a perfectly wonderful Halal butcher and greengrocer in the street of my Balham Bikram Yoga studio. I bought two bunches of fresh parsley that would have cost me the price of a deer in East Sussex. Served to me by beautiful looking men with their little white caps on.
My second session this morning was more organised. I arrived later so I didn’t have to worry about parking over my limit.
I wore a pair of shorts and vest under a track suit. I took a bottle of my own water and a big towel smelling of my own washing powder, stood at the back and took my glasses off. It meant I could stand on one leg more steadily and not see how perfectly balanced everybody else was.
It was a different teacher today; all calm and Asian. I was surrounded by old ladies who were so supple they put Ghandi to shame. Black geezers in the tightest of shorts that gave Linford Christy a run for his money shot and a lot of post Christmas porkers who made me look positively Audrey Hepburn, as well as some yogis who were all but bare.
It’s the most intimate class I’ve ever been too although nobody gives a kakasana about anybody else.
My body is getting used to the exercises and breathing but it has absolutely knackered me. so I am going to write up my journals and slide into bed with a big book – and if that fails I’ll get the old git to slide into bed with me….if I fall asleep my 9.00 then so be it.
I wont be happy until I get to a 6.30 class though, that’s when I know I’ve become a hardcore hot yogi bear….

1 thought on “Yogi Bare”

  1. Now how about that, I was meaning to ask how your Mum was doing, I miss hearing how she is. xxhugxx

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