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.

Keep on running...well, start at least...

'Sometimes,' I said to Andy yesterday, 'when I am walking briskly, as is my wont these days as walking is my main mode of transport since we sold our second car to buy the Eglu and...'

'Get to the point, darling,' said Andy, hands poised over his computer keyboard because I have interrupted him at a VERY IMPORTANT point in his virtual reality 'brave adventurer-creeping-round-a- sinister-castle-trying-to-avoid-monsters' game.

'I'm just providing a bit of back story for any readers new to my blog,' I said.

'Ahem,' said Andy, and I think he gave a slight nod towards his computer screen, but I might be wrong, could have been an involuntary tic like the time he told me to 'Sssshhh,' during an episode of Doctor Who. I mean, it was Christopher Eccleston too, for heaven's sake, not even David Tennant. Even I would have 'ssshhhed' me if it had been Tennant. But Eccleston????

Andy was, by now, staring at the ceiling and whistling.
'You'll never get off the ground with those little wings,' I said, pointing to his virtual reality computer character. 'I'd go for much bigger ones if I were you. More Archangel than Cherub. Anyway,' I continue, because although Andy is the most patient person I've ever met, even I could see he was getting a bit twitchy at my procrastination, 'sometimes when I am walking briskly, I feel like breaking into a bit of a run.'

Andy stared at me.
'Is that it?' he said.
I stare back.
'Isn't that enough?'
'I suppose,' said Andy.
'Cup of tea?' I asked.
'Ssshhh,' said Andy. (He didn't really say this. Wouldn't dare, not after the Doctor Who incident. I just added it for comic effect.)

Anyway, Andy appeared an hour or so later. I didn't ask if he'd overcome the monsters in the sinister castle because apparently these virtual reality games can go on for YEARS before any satisfactory outcome is achieved. A bit like real life only without bills, death and having to empty the bin when it's full.

'Let's go running together,' said Andy. He is clutching some sheets of A4 in his hand.
'What? Now?' I say, thinking his timing was very inconvenient as I was, by now, employed in IMPORTANT activities myself i.e watching Goldie Hawn and Bette Midler on the telly in 'The First Wives' Club.' Bette Midler and Goldie Hawn are two of my favourite actresses. In fact, I would like to have Midler's wit and Hawn's figure. Then I could be Bette Hawn. Or Goldie Midler. Or Boldie Hitler. Or Gette Hawnier...

'Well, not NOW,' said Andy, interrupting my silent ramblings, which was a bit unnerving to say the leastbut probably saved me from myself. 'In say, a month's time when I've got myself a bit fitter. I've found a beginner's training programme on the Interweb. I'm going to laminate it.' And he waves the pieces of A4 at me.

'Okay,' I say. 'Let's start running together.'

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a flurry of extensive research into running programmes (walk a bit, jog a bit, walk a bit, jog a bit more), avoiding injuries (don't start running in the first place), running shoes (stand in wet feet on a bathroom carpet to discover your foot type. I am 'normal arch', or in running parlance 'transitional'), support bras (hammock-sized moulded capsules), what to eat, what not to eat, calories burned, Aertex fabric, heart monitors (HEART MONITORS????) etc etc. It's a whole new world!
And I was very excited to discover there is a running programme called 'Fartlek!' It seemed quite complex so I think Fartlekking will have to wait a while. Or at least until we can make it down the hill to the park without collapsing in the gutter.

'Shall we register for next year's London Marathon?' said Andy, as he stood in the kitchen laminating his training plan ready to take to the gym.
I narrowed my eyes in thought (and imaginary pain.)
'Maybe the year after?' I suggested.

We looked at each other, both cuddly and amply curvacious, both a bit too fond of homemade cake and sitting on the swing in the garden reading books.

'Yes, maybe the year after,' we agreed in unison.

Who moved the goal posts over there?

In order to maintain general well-being we are advised to cover a certain mileage every day. (On foot, not in a car - get a grip already, will you?) "10,000 steps a day are all you need to stay fit!" declare the health editors in every magazine. "This information is brought to you by Acme Step Counter - clickaway to walk your way to daily fitness." ('Nice alliteration, Denise.' 'Why thank you, Mrs Miggins.')

I have a step counter. It clings to my waistband, clunking away so it sounds like I am carrying a dried pea in a matchbox everywhere I go. I have become obsessed with listening to it, knowing that every 'clunk' I hear is a record of another step towards my daily 10,000. Sometimes it doesn't clunk and this annoys me. I wonder, 'How many steps have I walked that haven't been recorded? Have I already achieved my step dose for the day and could I be sitting on the sofa now watching that programme where elephants with cameras in tree trunks harass tigers, like pachyderm papparazzi?'

Have you ever tried to cover 10,000 steps a day? Okay, everyone who is an athlete and trains for 20 out of 24 hours, put you hands down now. I'm talking to normal people here. My initial experiment of wearing a pedometer at home whilst going about my daily business revealed I covered about 3,500 steps on average. So I found myself going for an extra hour walk to reach my target. Sometimes this isn't practical(like if it's blowing a storm or you've got a life to live) so you find yourself jogging on the spot whilst cleaning your teeth, doing the washing up and opening your post. Then you find yourself jogging across the kitchen to get the bread from the bread bin, or to take the rubbish out because jogging a) means you can make lots of little bouncy steps that b) all register on the pedometer (clunk, clunk, clunkitty clunk) which c) alleviates some of the paranoia previously mentioned.

Never jog when peeling vegetables or carrying a mug of tea...and watch out for cats...and pins, especially if you're well into your dressmaking course and it has become the 'new best thing to do'...

So, having now developed an obsession with getting that counter up to the magic 10,000, I read on Monday that to achieve weight loss through walking I have to stomp my way up to 13,000 a day! 13,000!!!! Who decides these numbers?? I tell you who. Some skinny bit of size 000 who subsists on a daily half an apple and a water biscuit and who wears two hollowed out pipe cleaners for trousers. They put a 'fat' (aka normal-sized) person on a treadmill and count the steps they cover before they reach certain stages of unconsciousness. Red in the face = 5,000 steps = unfit. Lying on the floor gasping for breath in the latter stages of lung collapse = 10,000 steps = look at you, you fat slob, you can't even stay upright. Pokes with a sharp stick and no response =13,000 steps = you are dead but at least you're in the right band of the BMI index and no longer an offence to my eyes.

It is my target to achieve 100,000 steps this week. That's 30,000 more than 'normal'. So far, at 9.30 on Wednesday morning, I have reached 34,791....34,792...34,793...34,795...................