Usually my Saturday morning yoga class is led by a lovely chap called Greg – he’s softly-spoken and funny and manages to encourage you to push yourself without making it into a chore. Nice.
This Saturday however, we had Jacqui. I knew we had a problem from the moment she walked in, ankle bells jingling and underarm hair wafting in the air-conditioned breeze.
She proceeded to make us lie around for a seemingly interminable series of meditations and visualisations:
Jacqui: “Let’s visualise our navel centre, which takes the colour orange… Let’s open our liver and release all the negative energy from our gall bladder…”
CAN WE PLEASE JUST GET ON WITH THE YOGA? Sheesh. You are boring me with your pseudo-holistic twaddle. And your voice is annoyingly grating. And I don’t like the colours we’re visualising. And that man’s feet smell. I don’t want to be here anymore, whose idea was this anyway? Oh right, mine. Okay then, I’m leaving. Or at least I would if I weren’t so British. Cue internal struggle.