There are some things which just make my toes curl up, and induce fear and trembling into my heart in an instant.  We all have them ,apparently –  phobias, hang-ups and insecurities.  Or at least, that’s what they’d have you believe…you know – that even Cosmo models have hang ups about their looks (hahaha) and that even the most accomplished performer is nervous going on stage…that sort of thing.

Personally I think it’s a load of bollocks.  When you can Waka Waka like Shakira and when you look like Kate Moss – it’s pretty lame to claim insecurity as one of your lesser attributes.  I mean – can you honestly tell me the Nivea girl worries about her cellulite??

Anyway – I digress.

One thing that really sends me into a blind panic is being invited to a dress-up party… Not a Hat Party, or a Masquerade, or a Wear Pink party.  That sort of thing is easy.  Fun, at a stretch.  But what I really, really, really hate is being invited to a Vampire Party.  Or a Pimps and Prostitutes Party.  Or, worse still – a Rocky Horror party.

Because, let’s face it – it’s hard enough as it is just getting dressed in the morning – finding a confortable pair of knickers without holes in is a challenge all of its own.  But when you throw in fishnet stockings and liquid eye-liner….well, let’s just say it is Not My Thing.

(On a side note – I believe there are gals who wear matching underwear just to do the school run… I kid you not!!!!  I don’t think I own a single bra that matches a single pair of knickers in my drawer.  I mean – when you buy those 3 for 1 specials from Asda made of t-shirt material, they generally don’t come with knickers in any case.  Seriously – who’s going to see your pants anyway? – apart from the proverbial ambulance driver who is going to hack them off in any case – assuming he has to access that part of your anatomy – and by that stage, seriously – who cares??   Or some libidinous Italian who cannot wait to get your clothes off…and I think I’d probably run several miles if any such person attempted such a thing – flattering or not.  So I generally go by the principle of – make sure your bra doesn’t show through your top (black under white is not cool, unless you’re Madonna), and make sure your pants don’t show through whatever you are wearing on your bottom half.  And if this results in a beige bra with purple (holey) pants – well, who cares??)

Anyway.  To get back to the point.  I don’t like dress-up.  Paticularly not dress-up that involves anything with the word Fish Net in it.  Fish nets are stinky, wet, cumbersome tools of the oceanic trade, and should stay where they are intended.

As for suspender belts – who on EARTH invented such things?  It had to be one of the Nivea Girl’s ancestors, because, seriously, no ordinary mortal would voluntarily come up with a brainwave like that.  I can just imagine it:

“Jacob, get thee hither and peruse my most wonderful invention!  See – what marvels lie in store for future generations of lucky female chubblers!  They may don my Belt so that it may cut becomingly into their soft torso, accentuating their rolls of Good Living.  Then they may put on these bewilderingly long socks and pull them up to the very lushest part of their voluptuous thighs, whereupon this extremely efficacious bit of lace will bite delightfully into their limbs, accentuating most wonderously the merits of  Not Taking Too Much Physical Exercise and Enjoying Life. To its Fullest.”

And don’t even get me STARTED on Bustiers and Corsets.  It’s all very well accentuating your cleavage and whatnot – but if you haven’t got one…well, it’s just all rather sad.  Perhaps you have not had the delightful experience of struggling into a bustier, getting someone brave to hook up a million hooks and eyes, or a billion pearly buttons, or tighten a cruel-looking satin ribbon, only to discover, belatedly, in somewhat of a swoon due to severe oxygen deprivation, that everything is extremely tight…except the Bit At The Top.

But if you have, you will know exactly what I mean.  Because The Bit At The Top is really the whole POINT!!  So there is nothing more soul-destroying than going through all that agony to look down at…nothing.  Not just the normal Nothing, which is an affliction I know well.  But NOTHING Nothing.  Extra-delineated, accentuated and exacerbated Nothing.  Worse still, looking down from one’s own perspective – you get a completely clear line of sight into…Nothing.  And sure – it’s not as though I have much to hide – but even I do not relish the thought of Percival Creep getting a bird’s eye view of the family jewels.  (Or pebbles in this case.)

So therein lies the problem.  Baldly stated – I have fat legs and no boobs.  There is really no other way of putting it, even as the Blogger.  And that’s a fact whether you dress it up or not.  The clothes do not maketh the Boobs or breaketh the child-bearing hips.  And that is why I do not like Dress-up.  Because no matter what I do, or how hard I try to pretend – basically I just look AWFUL.  So inviting me to a Rocky Horror dress-up is tantamount to feeding me vomit and making me sit naked in First Street.

And if you ever do invite me to such a thing, even if I have never met you in my life before, I can already tell 3 important things about you:

You either:

1. Are male,
2. Are named Randi or Apple and descend from the noble line of Gluteus Niveas (See Yoga Part 1), or
3. You look Extremely Good in Fishnets and Bustiers, and therefore, by default, also belong to 2. above.

There are certain things that One Just Does Not Do.  You know – burp at a dinner party, lick your knife, flash your panties at the vicar…that sort of thing.  Another thing you Really Ought Not To Do is run over a dog belonging to One Of The Gals Who Came Last Time.

For a start, it is not a very good way to make a new Best Friend.

It is also not a very good way to start your 8^th yoga session.

And it is DEFINITELY not a good way to make friends with the dog.

But there you have it.  Some things just happen.  And some things you could probably avoid happening, but they happen anyway, and it’s only after they happen that you realise they really ought Not To Have Happened…

But that is a bit too philosophical for the plain ugly truth – which is: I ran over Enzo.  Beloved little tiny dog of the family.  Cute little furry thing with one blue eye and one brown.  Sweetest little darling canine you have ever laid eyes upon.

And I ran him over. At yoga.  With the Gals Who Came Last Time looking on in silent horror.

In my defence, (someone has to try and make this story a little more PC, and as I am The Blogger, it’s really my duty to attempt it!) I think Enzo actually lay in wait that morning.  He KNEW I was coming, hunkered down by the gate, waited for it to open and close several times (letting in all sorts of Gals Who Came Last Time with no incident), then positively LEAPT into action as my car arrived, stayed craftily out of sight then bolted, cunningly, straight under my back wheels.

Whilst I, quietly ignorant of the impending Disaster, merrily turned into the driveway, happily anticipating the 8^th Yoga session, wondering if I would FINALLY make it to the ranks of a Last Time Gal…only to come to a grinding, bumping, squealing halt…on top of Enzo.

I don’t know if you have ever run anything over before, but believe me, it is Not Very Nice.  Particularly not when what you have run over is clearly still under the wheel.  And yelping.  Very loudly.

I am not sure what you would have done, but I stopped.  And then sat there, rather stupidly wondering what I ought to do next.  Even when one of the horrified Last Time Gals said, very calmly, “Just reverse – he’s OK, you’re on his tail – reverse…” it took me a while to process this instruction.

And a while longer to actually contemplate doing it.

And a while longer while I considered the merits of reversing, as against going forward, or of not going anywhere at all…

I mean, *(^%$£@@!!!! I was ON TOP OF ENZO.  Teeny tiny weeny little Enzo.  In my (very large and very heavy) car.  I had felt the bump.  Actually bump is far too sedate.  I had felt the whack, smack, thud, and squish of Enzo Under Wheel.  And I was acutely aware that he was STILL Under Wheel. And still yelping…

And that any movement, forward, backward, or anything short of levitation (and I have not got that far in yoga yet) would result in Something Horrible…Not to mention my permanent and definite exclusion from Yoga, the premises, the Last Time Club, and possible spill-over into society at large and any public place I may dare to show my face in the future…

I was so busy imagining the Epitaph (Here lies Enzo – so Sweet, so Loved, and so Squashed…  etc and so on) that I am afraid it took a fair few moments for me to process the (by now hysterical) instructions from the sidelines…to REVERSE!

Which I eventually did, releasing poor Enzo’s tail.  Whereupon he literally FLEW through the air, took off like a bat out of hell, and ran indignantly out of sight.

And I parked my car and prayed to the God Of Gurus and Yogis and Anything That Would Help Enzo that I had not killed him…(I had not, it turns out.  Luckily.)

Enzo went to the Vet and got better.  Enzo came home and now starts howling (very loudly) and running (very convincingly) and cowering (very heart breakingly) behind his owner whenever I am near…

And, 8 weeks on,  with Enzo happily still alive and well (if a bit emotionally traumatised and slightly psychotic in my presence), I am very nearly almost a Last Time Gal…except I have problems with some of the terminology, still cannot do a Sun Salutation, and simply CANNOT hear the words Downward Facing Dog without wanting to throw up….

If there is such a thing as a past life, I like to think I was an accomplished musician in one of mine.  Or that perhaps I will be in one yet to come.

I figure, if there is anything to the whole Jonathan Livingstone Seagull thing, that you have to start somewhere.  So (perhaps) this life is my starting point musically, because, clearly, it cannot be an intermediate stage, and it certainly is not the final stage.  Because if it were…well, that would be quite sad.

Sad because my musical and rhythmical capabilities are…er, challenged, is probably the kindest word.  (And as I am the Blogger, I can use whatever word I want, thereby avoiding: useless, inept, ungainly, frankly – mortifyingly terrible…)

That is not to say that I have not actually tried to develop my musical side.  It’s not as though I am just picking the most unattainable goal in the world out of the air and wondering why I am not getting there.  I don’t want to be a Trapeze Artist or a contestant on Zimbabwe’s Got Talent.  I just want to be able to play the piano (fluently) (with two hands doing different things at the same time) (without sending my children into paroxysms of embarrassment, as they dive for cover and glance around rapidly to assess how much damage control is needed).

With this humble goal in mind, about 3 years ago I started piano lessons.  My daughter, who is now 9, had started the year before me (maths is not my strong point – along with Science, see Advice from The Vet – but that means she was about 6 when she started), so I already had a rudimentary grasp of the basics.  (Where middle C is and the difference between a crotchet and a…not-crotchet.)

I also had this wonderful conviction that I was Beethoven in a former life.  Or, if not Beethoven, then at least Whatisname…Creator of Great Symphonies and Piano Player of Note.  I just assumed that my talent had just been resting, latent, under a bushel, and that my parents had failed abjectly to provide me with the tools necessary to expose my brilliance.

So it was with the best will in the world that I embarked upon my (rather late) musical career.  Off I went, manuscript book in hand, whistling merrily in anticipation of my Concerto in H Minor, delighted that at last I would be able to throw myself down at the piano after a hard day in the office – and simply play my frustrations away.

(If you are a Follower, you will know by now that the path of True Louise never did run smooth…)

Basically, my first lesson went like this:

I discovered that there is no such thing as H,

that in piano there is A Lot Of Maths (seriously, there is.  I know because I come up in hives),

that hearing 4 beats in a bar should come naturally (especially if you are Whatisname),

that if you are left-handed you are at a distinct disadvantage because most of the Real Tune is played in the right (well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it),

and that, in spite of Coming Completely Out Of The Bushel, I am regrettably still…challenged (not useless, inept, ungainly, or frankly – mortifyingly terrible. Just challenged.)

This does not mean I have given up!  No – not I ! – bushels aside (what is a bushel in any case?), I am faithful to Jonathan Livingstone, Seagull.  Practice makes perfect.  Dedication is the mother of good fortune. I am determined to one day rise above my (rather abject) musical station.  One day I shall be miraculously transported into another (tuneful and harmonious) dimension.  (Or, alternatively, I am going to be a pole-dancer.  I am going to have one of those sleek, tanned belly buttons (see Yoga One) and at least a 34-C cleavage.  My Glutes are going to be Truly Admirable, and I am going to have the Self Confidence of a…well, of Something that is Extremely Self Confident .  And I am to going to wiggle my hips like Shakira.  But that is another Blog entirely…)

Back to The Piano…I have visions of myself sitting down at the Baby Grand, flexing my fingers, bowing my head, then launching into Something Complicated And Impressive, fingers flying, body swaying from side to side, head flying back and forwards to the movement of the piece as I am carried passionately away in the melody…People will clap (applaud, I mean.  Not hit me.)  U-tube will put me on their Pick of The Day.  I will be famous.  Well – perhaps not famous.  But I will be able to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with two hands.

In the meantime, I plod away painfully.  After 3 years of gentle forebearance and unflagging encouragement, my piano teacher has finally given me a New Scale (E Minor).  She is very kind and knows I am Chordphobic, so she avoids anything with more than one note at a time (of course this may also be In Her Own Best Interests, but as I am a self-indulgent Blogger, I will avoid this line of thought).

After 3 years of dedication and hopeless commitment, I can finally play The Cricket (basically one note played over and over and over again.  I am struggling with the timing, but I have completely WAXED that note) without looking at my hands.  And when I have had a stressful day – I throw myself down at the piano, flex my fingers, bow my head and launch into…er, The Cricket… with joyful abandon, and play my frustrations away.  It is amazing how good it is for the soul… (mine, that is…I cannot speak for anyone within a 4 kilometre radius of the piano).

My goodness.  I have a Following.  Admittedly only two people (and I’m paying them) but still…The problem with having a Following, though, is that you have to give them something to Follow.

(“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.

“I don’t much care where –“ said Alice.

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.

“—so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.

“Oh you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll)

There is a certain amount of pressure attached to being a blogger, and today I have Blogger’s Block.  I could do Yoga Part 3, or Running Part 1, or Extracts from The Philosopher’s Bath, but I am saving them for Another Day.

The truth is – (I hate to admit it, naturally, but as there are only two of you, and let’s face it, it’s not exactly going to get out, so I can afford to risk My Street Cred somewhat…) – I am not a Very Interesting Person.

I also don’t know Very Much About Anything (see Failed Science Lesson in previous blog). So even if I were to embark on What I Think About Global Warming or How I Feel About the IMF, I know before I even start that you’d end up laughing your socks off at me, and I’d be left feeling a bit…inadequate.  Not to mention totally confused and supremely out of my depth because although I’d like to expound with authority on such topics of general interest – well, quite frankly – I am pants at it.  I end up leaving myself wondering what I’ve just said, and that is a not a very good starting point.

So – as I have already started with Alice, perhaps that will be my thought for the day.

(The White Rabbit put on his spectacles.  “Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?” he asked.

“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”)

It is, after all, one of my favourite books of all time .  I love the absurdity of it all – the non sequitur conversations and the completely insane logic of life in Wonderland.  It’s perfect for me – full of questions that don’t have to be answered  (“Why is a raven like a writing-desk?”) and arguments, which never get anywhere.  I am perfect at that sort of thing.  I LOVE the idea of just talking a whole lot of rubbish and not having to explain myself.  Ask my mum.

The thing I like most about Wonderland is that it is full of mad advice that, the more you think about it, the more sane it becomes.  Take this example from the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party:

“Then you should say what you mean,” the March Hare went on.

“I do,” Alice hastily replied; “at least—at least I mean what I say—that’s the same thing, you know.”

“Not the same thing a bit!” said the Hatter. “You might just as well say that ‘I see what I eat’ is the same thing as ‘I eat what I see’!”

And he’s absolutely right!  I can think of a million times when what I have said is not what I mean, and when what I mean is completely ruined by what I have said.  Words have power, so really we should only use them when we have something to say… so, on that wise note, I shall retire for the night.

( With one last thought from Lewis, to all my (two) Followers…

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.

“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.” !)

My son (who’s six) wants a baby.  It has been the topic of discussion for nearly ten days now, and is threatening to top the charts – his previous obsession (the real Woody and Bullseye from Toy Story) having lasted nearly 14.

Unfortunately I unwittingly contributed to this by implementing my policy of: If the question arises, answer it. As honestly as you can. (As you have probably noticed from previous blogs, my Policies are not exactly fool proof.  You’d have thought I’d have learned by now…)

So here’s what led to the Baby Discussion:

My son lay back in the bath for one of his lengthy philosophical discussions.  I could tell, by the look in his eye.  Now if you are the kind of mother who plays a lot of Trivial Pursuit and watches endless National Geographic and Discovery documentaries, you probably do not have the Oh No Here Comes Another Question I Cannot Answer Syndrome.

I, on the other hand, have the general knowledge capacity of a barnacle, and my standard answer to most questions is, “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask Dad” or, “I’m not sure, we’ll have to look it up on the Internet.” (How anyone ever coped before the Internet is quite beyond me.  I mean, I remember looking up things in the Encyclopaedia or the Collins Factfinder, etc as a child.  But let’s face it – it’s not quite the same as Asking Jeeves how to make An Almost Flourless Chocolate Cake or Googling Cowboy Games for 6 Year Olds, now, is it?)

Not only am I distinctly lacking in the general knowledge department, but I also have the kind of son who says things like “This book says mammals don’t have gills.  An octopus doesn’t have gills.  So – is it a mammal?”  Clearly the answer is No.  Even I know that.  But I also know that the next question will be: “Well, what is an octopus then?” (It is at this point that I generally roll out the Dad or Internet option…)

So imagine my delight when I was finally able to answer one of my son’s questions:

“Mum – where does your body keep the wee before you go to the toilet?”

“You have a little bag-thingy in your tummy called a bladder, and that’s where the wee is stored” (OK – not exactly Einstein’s version, but he’s only six!)

I can tell by the imperceptible gleam in his eye that his brain has processed that and has found the answer lacking.  Uh-oh.

“Oh.  I thought it was this little bag here that holds the wee.  So – what’s that for?”

(A brief aside – my best friend is a vet.  And her policy is always to answer questions about the body as factually and as clearly as possible.  If the question arises – answer it and don’t flubber around with the birds and the bees – it is much simpler and less confusing for the child that way.  I agree with her.  It makes a lot of sense.  So I have a list of carefully prepared Scientific Answers to All Sorts Of Things. Problem is, I have never been called upon to actually use them before.  And, let’s face it, I am not a vet.  So my idea of Scientific is…well, probably a bit weak, to put it mildly.)

So I take a deep breath and say, nonchalantly, “That little bag is where your body stores sperm for when you are a bit bigger and want to make a baby.”

The gleam in his eye is now a force-10 lighthouse emission.

“Oh!  So – a boy CAN have a baby then?”

(The baby thing has come up a few times before.  Most notably when he was about 2 and went around telling everyone he had a squirrel in his tummy.)

I surge on, vaguely aware that I am probably out of my depth here, but determined to prove myself with this Scientific Moment.

“Well…no.  You need a mummy and a daddy for a baby.  The mummy carries the baby in her tummy.  But she can’t get a baby unless the daddy gives her a sperm to fertilise the egg.”

My son is now sitting straight up in the bath, and I just KNOW that what is coming next cannot be good.

“Aha!  So…Daddy can just GIVE you a baby?”

(I admit, at this point I probably should have just said – let’s look it up on the internet in a few years’ time.  But I wanted to dispel any notions that I might actually be contemplating asking Daddy for a baby.)

So I said: “Yes…but only if the mummy and the daddy both want a baby.”

He sinks back under the bubbles and I sigh with pride.  My first Scientific Discussion safely navigated.  Admittedly with a few anxious moments, but generally well executed, I feel.

I ought to have known better.  Suddenly he sits up again and announces:

“I am going to phone Dad and ask him to bring you a baby.”

Oh dear.

“Well – it doesn’t really work like that,” I begin, bravely.  Then I see the gleam in his eye again and rapidly abandon any pretence of Scientific Anything and attempt, very belatedly, to rescue the situation.

“Anyway – who will look after a baby?  I certainly don’t have time for a baby, and Daddy is too busy, and you and your sister won’t want a little pest following you round all day and…”

“I do want a little pest!  Please, please, PLEASE ask Daddy to give you a baby.  I’ll look after it, and feed it and change it and give it a name.  It can be MY baby. Please.  He can just bring us one.  You said he can.  You said I just have to ask and Daddy can bring us a baby.”

Oh dear.  This is NOT going well.  My son’s (usually very clear and logical) reasoning has deteriorated.  I quickly review the last 10 minutes’ worth of discussion and realise that I should have just reverted to Jeeves at the initial opening.  We could have found a safe little picture of a Bladder and he could have been distracted by the Kidneys and Whatnot and I am quite sure we could have had a nice navigation around the Adrenal Gland or something else innocuous and I would not be where I am right now.  Which is quite clearly in the bathroom, with a dripping, delusional son, dealing with a procreational crisis all of my own making…

So – I make a mental note to kill my best friend, and abruptly change the subject:

“Let’s go out and buy you the Genuine Woody and Bullseye Toys from The Original Toy Story 3 Movie.  I know I spent the last two weeks telling you they are far too expensive and a complete waste of money but, you know what?  I’ve changed my mind!!”

When I googled Yoga for Beginners I got about 534,000 results.  Needless to say I was a bit overwhelmed and clicked randomly on only one.  Where I was greeted with the following phrase: “In this asana the external organs of the body are kept in such a way that they stand divided in two”.

I can safely say that this is a very good and thorough result for Yoga for Beginners.  My external organs are not only divided permanently in two, but they are also Forever Altered.  In fact – since I started Yoga, I have discovered external organs I never even knew I had.  This is a bit of a mixed blessing.  A bit like finding a family member you never knew about – great if they’re wealthy and look like Tom Cruise.  Not so cool if they arrive hooded and bouncing off the walls, using words like “innit” and “dude”, and sniff a lot.

My google search also revealed the words “Balance” and “Relaxed”.  Sometimes even “Relaxed Balance”.  These words should be struck off summarily and should not be allowed in any sentence containing the word Yoga.  They are mutually exclusive and therefore meaningless in the same context.

So – let me tell you how Yoga works (assuming you have already mastered The Art Of Being New).  (And if you are one of The Gals That Came Last Time – you know a whole lot more than I do, so why are you even reading this??)

First of all – make sure you’ve had a pedicure done in the last decade.  Because it seems at yoga everyone whips off their shoes at the door.  Which is lovely.  Provided you have not got a mini Grand Canyon on your heels and blue toenails from running.

Ok.  So you’ve got through the door, found a mat, got any embarrassing introductory measures out of the way and the beautiful Guru-In-Charge-Person has finally stopped asking you about your history of heart disease and obesity (tactfully keeping her eyes averted from afore-mentioned bulging gusset).  There is a tasteful little sound system emitting calming noises – Gregorian Chanting and whales mating and that sort of thing.  (As a brief aside – make the most of this moment, which is lovely, calm, and filled with delighted anticipation.  This is the Before.  When your external organs are still Undivided. )

Let us begin.  Breathe in through your nose, out through your nose.  In through your nose, out through your nose.  (This may seem like an awful lot of common sense, but believe me, you’ll be glad of this mundane advice in a few short minutes when you have completely forgotten what breathing is, let alone how to do it).

This is the Sun Salutation (with apologies to Beautiful Guru Chief): Inhale, raise your hands, exhale, bend down and touch the palms of your hands to the floor, with your head resting on your knees and your legs straight.  Inhale.  Step or jump back into the plank position.  Tuck in your abdominals and tighten your bottom.  Inhale. Exhale. Etc. Gently lower yourself down by bending your arms, and stretch your neck and back upwards into the Upward Facing Dog.  Inhaling and what not.  At this point you should be resting only on the tops of your feet and the palms of your hands.  Exhale and so on. Now push back and roll over your toes (it’s very simple, work it out) into the Downward Facing Dog.  Push the soles of your feet into the mat and relax your head and shoulders down.  Inhale, look up, step or jump forwards, exhale, stand up. Inhale; raise your hands…and back to the beginning.

HAHAHA.  Who am I kidding???  I am carefully observing the 2-second rule (see previous blog), and am therefore already lost – inhaling as everyone else is exhaling and raising my arms when they are bent casually in two from the waist like neatly folded ashtanga-attired bits of paper.

I am flopping helplessly around, knees bent and head nowhere near them, as 12 Gals From Last Time and Guru-Master-Lady glide effortlessly into the plank.  My plank looks more like a blanket, and I have stopped inhaling and exhaling altogether.

They are all obediently facing upwards, like good dogs.  I am lying, face down, on the mat, desperate for water, but, Lemming that I am, too embarrassed to reach for it – not to mention entirely incapable of any movement at all, my external organs having been rudely awakened and divided in two without ceremony.

Now for the Downward Facing Dog.  Seriously.  Who in their right mind would get down on all fours, voluntarily raise their non-Nivea Glutes into the sky and hope to look elegant at the same time?? As for stepping or jumping forwards…when your external organs are divided – it is quite simply impossible.

So I just lie there.  Limply expired.  On the mat.  As 12 perfectly choreographed Gals from Last Time and Supreme Zen Warrior finally come to rest…and notice me…

I started Yoga two weeks ago.  I decided it was Time.  Two of my friends told me they were “also just beginning” and “completely useless” and that I would feel very comfortable in this small group of 13. (I was to be 13.  I should have taken more careful note at the time).

Now I don’t profess to be a hardened exercisee, but I have attended my fair share of aerobics/step/pump/dance-fit etc classes.  So I have already mastered the Art of Being New.

The first thing that happens is this:
You walk into a room full of strangers, who are generally wearing Nike this and Adidas that.  They are all talking about Mutual Friends and Last Night/Last Weekend/Monaco/The Joneses.  They shoot you a sideways look, which to the uninitiated could possibly pass as a friendly acknowledgement.  To The Newcomer, however, it clearly says – You are New.  This is My Territory.  That is My Mat. Take your No-name Trainers to The Back and do not attempt Conversation.

You stumble as inconspicuously as possible to the back and take covert measure of your surroundings.  This is essential.  You need to know where the water cooler is, and how to operate it (there is nothing more embarrassing than a Water Cooler Incident – I know, believe me), where to put your water bottle and how to set up your mat/step/weights/band/ball – it sounds mundane – but to the Newcomer – it is an ordeal of highest proportion.

Then the Instructor enters, sporting Nike this, Adidas that, New Balance something else.  She is, without fail, like the Nivea girl who leaps around displaying No-Cellulite Legs and looks perennially 23.  Everyone knows her.  She is usually called Mimi or Randi or Apple, or something equally catchy. They all engage in friendly banter about how sore their butts are From The Last Time (pointed sideways look in Newcomer’s direction) and how they Really Need To Work On Their Glutes. (At this point they surreptitiously tighten said offenders and glance imperceptibly at their perfect silhouettes in the mirrors.  Then they shoot an even less perceptible glance around the room, comparing butts.  Then seamlessly go back to the friendly-but-lethal banter.)

Then the next thing that happens is this:
The Instructor looks around and says something pleasant like “Hello gals – let’s get this started – if you think your butts were sore Last Time, that was Nothing!  Right – before we start, make sure you have your water with you.  Any back injuries or other injuries I should know about?” and then, voice lowers, brow darkens, tone lowers and…”Anyone New To The Class Today??”

So in spite of plucking up enough courage to even enter the class in the first place, tiptoeing humbly to the back, avoiding the Gals Who Were There Last Time, carefully navigating the Territorial Mats, and hoping you have blended enough into the background to have been forgotten… Your carefully contrived cover is blown to smithereens in a second.  All eyes are trained on you.  All expressions are of malicious expectation as you, trembling, raise your hand…

With this kind of introduction to a new class, the experienced Newcomer quickly masters the Watch And Learn technique.  Which basically means: allow a 2-second time delay before responding to any instruction.  Use this 2 seconds to quickly scan, analyse and memorise what The Room In General Is Doing.  Then do it – very quickly – before they get up, or change position, or notice you.  This invariably means you either:
a)    Do not even get started – some moves being 2 seconds or less.
b)   Do a very speeded-up version of the move, which is probably not very effective at all, and leaves you rather breathless and flustered just in time for the next 2-second time delay.
c)    Land in an ungainly heap on the floor, effectively erasing the entire 2-second technique, all eyes now being firmly focussed on you for the duration of the class.

So you will understand how I felt when I finally plucked up the courage and went to Yoga.  For a start I had no idea what to wear.  Seriously – I rocked up in full aerobics gear (labels and everything), socks and trainers, complete  with a moisturewick (I think that’s what it said)  sweat towel and a bottle of water – ready for Action.  I did not need the trainers.  Or the Hidden Socks. Or the towel. (Correction – I could have done with the towel several times during the hour…but no one else had one.  I am NOT the one for Doing Something Different.  Think Lemming.  Think Ostrich.  Think Sheep.  That’s me.)

So there I am.  Number Thirteen.  Entering a New Room.  With twelve other Gals Who Were There Last Time (the last about 40 times, I gathered later).  Thirteen mats, strategically scattered around the room in seemingly random order.  (Haha – not to the Experienced Newcomer!  No Siree – not me.  I was not going to Stick Out, Cause A Scene, Innocently Exappropriate a Mat of a Last Time Gal).

So I hang back, do a quick reconnaissance, duck my head, hold my breath, and scuttle quietly to the back, selecting the shabbiest, most inconspicuous mat I can find.

So far, it is pretty much as I have expected.  Except  – horrors! -it seems that my carefully selected matching Nike outfit and tight fitting (rather too tight-fitting, but hey – that’s why I’m at yoga) garments are glaringly out of place here.  Here everyone looks like they just stepped out of Home and Garden, in their elegant Lounging Attire.  Those pants that you see on girls in the movies – you know?  Where they cling attractively to their hip bones, and fall gracefully from the non-existent curve of their belly.  Belly buttons galore – flat and sleek and tanned.  You know what I mean. Intimidating. Terrifying.

I desperately pull at the offending lycra and try to surreptitiously lower my waistband, hoping for the same graceful hip-bone transformation.  Sadly I succeed only in exposing my non-Nivea derriere and accentuating my bulging waistline, which now hangs disconsolately over the band of my Nike-Air Extreme-Gusset-Control sweat pants; not to mention the baggy bit around my cellulite-enhanced Glutes which looks suspiciously like I have had an embarrassing accident and am not sure what to do with it.

To make matters worse, one of the Sleek Belly Buttons is advancing with Intent.  My belly button quivers and swallows itself up in comforting rolls of fat as I look miserably to the floor and hope I have not been spotted.  No such luck, Thirteen.   The honeyed voice matches the graceful leisure-wear.  “Um…sorry to be a pain.  But…This Is My Mat.  I always go at the very back , you see, because I am just hopeless and I don’t want anyone to see me…” (this with a musical tinkling laugh, accompanied by eleven others, rising in comradely unison).  I blush to my (badly in need of a touch-up) roots and mumble incoherently, step away hastily, trip over my Extreme Gusset, and land in an ungainly heap on the floor…

At which point the Yoga instructor (guru or Zen-master or chief or whatever – I am quite sure there is a name The Gals Who Came Last Time know, which I clearly do not) beams dazzlingly upon the room and says “Anyone New To The Class Today…?”  And the nightmare begins…