Yoga and Beer

I used to think Yoga was just a relaxed roll-about on the floor.

A bit like taking a nap on your special mat in nursery.

I wasn’t going to do it because it obviously didn’t involve any sweating.

Then my shoulders started to ache a lot and I worried I was getting arthritis.

“You should do yoga,” the masses advised me.

So I did and I was shocked to find it was the most physically challenging exercise I’d ever done in my life.

Every stretch made my body cry out ‘I’m not meant to be doing this!’

Despite the pain, I’ve taken it up here in Bogotá and I love it.

It’s a two hour session but the teacher always tries to waste a bit of time at the beginning explaining what yoga is.

I mean to arrive late to miss the talking but then I tell myself it’s good for me.

While I’m thinking I’ve heard it all before I’m probably missing something key.

I like the sound of the positions in Spanish, especially Guerrerro* 1 (*Warrior) and Guerrero 2.

With legs firmly on the ground, arms stretching out at each side, eyes focused ahead and Indian music playing in the background, there is a moment where I think I’m Arjuna (from the Mahabharata).

A whole enemy army awaits me but I am not afraid.

That’s what happens when you inhale and exhale deeply with every movement.

It goes to your head.

You just don't get such brilliant illusions on the treadmill.

The melodic music, which could be from Bollywood for all I know, gives the class a special feel.

It’s not the same when the teacher’s ipod selects some wishy-washy version of a film sound track.

That happened last week and I was distracted from my Guerrerro positions because I was trying to guess what film it was from.

The soppy English lyrics killed off any spiritual element there might've been.

I wanted to ask him if he’d please change it but being half British it really goes against my genes to make a fuss.

Luckily it swapped back to the Indian chant.

My favourite bit about my yoga class is at the end when the teacher comes over and rubs tiger balm over my nose.

It stings a bit but it smells delicious and I feel myself drifting to sleep.

Pity I can’t go next week.

But not too much of a pity because I’ll be in Rome!

The Fiancé won the trip in a Peroni raffle. I’ve never been to Italy before so I’m very excited.

Yoga and Beer.

Happiness is about finding that balance.

I’ll tell you how it goes.

Until then… Arrivederci!

Taking Steps in Bogotá

I’m still not travelling around the city as I did in London.

My job is to write and it’s at the kitchen table which doesn’t take long to get to.

“Are you putting on weight?” Mum asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” I say, prodding myself.

My saviour is the family’s step machine.

I’m doing twenty minutes in the morning listening to music.

Today it was Jonny Cash.

When I feel that tingle of air meeting the sweat on my arms, I experience a sense of well-being.

It’s also the satisfaction of routine which I need to write this novel.

Writing is slow.

I’m worried my book sounds like an Enid Blyton. Too chirpy, too golly gosh.

I’ll be doing a lot of rewriting over the next few weeks, which is alright because Mum stuffed my suitcase with tea bags.

When I’m happy I’ll send the chapters over to her and she’ll tell me the truth.

Apart from writing, I’m not doing much.

On Thursday I came very close to joining a yoga class.

I got as far as writing my name on a list and going into a room full of chairs.

Yoga on chairs? How unusual, I thought.

“It’s a lecture on yoga,” a woman said.

“Ah,” I said and hurried out of the building.

Apart from looking after my physical being, it’d also be good if I did some voluntary work. At least it would get me out of the house.

Cooking too might be an idea.

Embarrassingly, the only thing I’ve cooked here has been a solitary omelet.

If I don’t get the hob on soon my in-laws may chuck me out.

Is it me, or are other people’s fridges intimidating?

Or is that just an excuse and really I’m afraid that what I cook won’t be good enough?

An excuse ... definitely.

Thank god I can wash up.