I went to yoga.
7 in the class. A tattooed woman who should know better, a Polish woman with a long plait that is going to be teaching next term, two women who are of my age but without the flabby thighs that I present when wearing shorts. And a couple who look like they have come from a religious sect in Pennsylvania.
My balance leaves a lot to be desired. But I can now get my head on my feet whilst sitting with the soles of said feet together. I know one shouldn’t be competitive in yoga but Godammit I am. With myself at least.
I came out without my phone or wallet so I went straight home. Driving slowly in case I got nicked again by the yellow van that sits snidely in the lay-by just after the pub.
Little Solly is missing Jim. Keeps running round looking for him. And twice I’ve fallen asleep and called for the old git only to realise that he’s four hundred miles away having the time of his life in his birth city.
I whipped off my hot yoga outfit, washed it, hung it over the bath like a student in a bedsit and set off for my vigorous constitutional.
There are those days when rain wraps you in a shawl of languor. Time stops. The only movement the dipping, dripping leaves. The silence is heavy with clock ticks and rain drops. King Solomon is licking his fur and the bell round his neck is tinkling ever so slightly. Emmy is asleep in the piano … Read more