Unhappy Baby

I was paralysed with trepidation, crippled by fear. "You'll fart," they warned. That didn't worry me, I'd been practicing sphincter control for weeks—doing push-ups with my legs spread apart while downing litre bottles of Pellegrino. Breaking wind was the least of my worries, breaking my back was more of a concern as I wandered sheepishly into my first yoga class.

The first thing I noticed was the nondescript New Age music that filled the studio. For some strange reason it reminded me of my father. Despite his love of Strauss, Mendelssohn and Mahler he always warned me about music without verses and choruses believing strongly that it was a gateway to narcotics addiction, or self publishing.

There were five others in the room, all female, all focused. They were folding like paper and the class hadn't even started. I felt intimidated—it reminded me of those gloriously agile women who appeared in the early Bond flicks—you know, the ones who cart-wheeled and high-kicked Connery's ass while the guy with the cat escaped in the pod.

Looking as inconspicuous as a red wine stain on a white rug I wandered around, waving my arms, limbering up, trying to look impressive while taking a mental note of first aid box in the corner of the room.

Finally the class started. Like a team of synchronized swimmers we got into our stride almost immediately. There was something intensely erotic about watching my new yoga buddies going through their paces but sex was the last thing on my mind, I was too busy dealing with my first hernia of the day. I had attempted a move which I hadn't tried since I was three months old.

As near death experiences go it was the closest I'd come. I can't recall the final fifty two minutes of the hour-long class—I wasn't conscious, I had passed out, or fallen asleep but it didn't matter because I had done so in a relaxed state, the tail of my spine firmly rooted to the earth.