An engaging pose

In the rare moments of this all-gardening, all-allotmenteering Bank Holiday weekend that I got to read the papers and their supplements and my subcription magazines that turned up en masse because it is the start of a new month, I noticed there seemed to be a lot of articles devoted to the art of yoga. The Guardian on Saturday magazine had a double page spread of 10 yoga specialists posing in manners that, quite frankly, shouldn't be possible. Or allowed. Or encouraged.

I suppose being bendy and flexible in such a manner does have its advantages. Like being able to see the backs of your thighs for example, without having to perform contortions with mirrors or sneak into a shop changing room to get an all round decko of what's behind you. A couple of weeks ago I had a sudden itch right in the middle of my back. I had to get Andy to see what was going on. He declared the offending area looked like it had suffered a bite rather than been pimpled.

'Shall I take a photo?' he said.
'Yes please,' I said, because I like to see these things for myself. So he did. My itch looked like a moon-crater. But it is almost gone now, so hurrah!

Yoga is more than being bendy and flexible and having the ability to see behind you without turning around, though. It is a philosophy where you have to engage you mind with what your body is doing. Well, if I could do that, I wouldn't be constantly struggling with my weight, would I? But that's by-the-by.
'Do you really need that cheese scone, hot from the oven with a dollop of butter on it?' yells my mind.
'What scone?' says my body, too busy concentrating on how delicious the said scone and butter tastes.
'That scone there!' shrieks my mind.
'I see no scone,' says my body, licking a couple of crumbs, (I wonder where they came from?) off my fingers.

I think the fun starts going out of things when you introduce philosophy into them. I mean, I would do yoga just so I could go to parties and say 'Look, I can put my right toe in my left ear and balance on one hand at the same time.' Start saying things like you're engaging with the core of the universe in order to balance your centres and the party folk will soon start yawning and wandering off to find more canapes.

'I can do yoga,' says Phoebe. 'Look. This is called the 'Side-Extended Melon Ball.'

'That's not yoga,' I say. 'That's you resting on your HUGE bottom because you can't sit any other way to clean your tummy. If you didn't sit like that you'd roll over like a Weeble.'

'It's a proper yoga pose,' says Phoebe. 'I have been studying for many years under the famous yoga master Tuk-It Upanunda.'
'Oh really?' I say.
'Yes really,' says Phoebe. 'I am a Seventh Dumpling Pink Belt with a Nice Purple Trim. I could break your arm with a single flap of my wing.'
'That's swans,' I sigh.
'Whatever,' says Phoebe.

It's nice to know that all is well in Phoebe-World.

Excessive Breast-Stroke Woman (she who creates the tidal waves by going UP and DOWN in the water rather than through and forwards) does a kind of yoga in the pool every morning. She does these exercises that are a cross between yoga, aquaerobics and synchronised swimming. She has impossibly thin ankles and a nose clip. I'm not sure some of her moves are wise. They look like they might feature quite high on the 'Movements Likely to Cause Drowning' scale. But I guess when you've been doing these things day in and day out for years on end, you get obsessed with maintaining your routine no matter how bonkers you look whilst you are doing it.

I don't think I'll start doing yoga. Not just yet. My left leg is almost recovered from its Achilles tendon damage so, hopefully, I can start my running programme soon. And with all the allotmenteering and swimming I am doing, I'm feeling quite healthy at the moment. Adding another activity might just be asking for trouble.