the land of yoga

Good yoga is hard to find, mainly because there's about a million different types and some people define 'great' as lying on the floor for three hours like a potato. There ought to be an urban spoon for yoga because on the one hand I want nothing more than to be a lithe vegan environmentalist exuding calm but on the other, I live in fear of spending 90 minutes concentrating on my breathing.

So here's the first of its kind.

The land of yoga is an actual place. Today was the second time I'd attempted to go there. The first time I drove around High St in Preston for half an hour before realising (too late) that it is actually located on Plenty Rd.

Pinpointing exact location is not the only reason it may have been wise to consult the website before heading along to the land of yoga. Repeated references to 'the art of relaxation' and the fact that blankets were provided may have alerted me to the fact this place was not for me. Then again perhaps not, I had already purchased a ten pass (for a mere $40!!!) on one of those 'daily deals' type websites.

Regardless, I arrived ridiculously early as I am wont to do and hovered out the front. There didn't appear to be a lot happening so I called Toby the owner who assured me the class was definitely on. An aside: how annoying when mobiles are listed for shops, I hate calling strangers on mobiles.

Anyway, finally there was movement and a bearded man appeared in the window. He saw me and must have unlocked the door but I didn't want to try it in case he hadn't and then I looked desperate to get in, much better to just linger awkwardly. After a few minutes staring at the menu of the takeaway shop next door another guy - who was not the full quid - arrived and said something loudly to which I responded:--- (nothing) because I didn't know if he was talking to me.

The two of us - me and the not the full quid guy - went in. It was a bit like entering a hairball/experiencing what it would be like to actually be valour. There were lots of draping furry fabrics and things.

I had to get changed so I asked to use the bathroom and Toby directed me down the hall. At which point the experience deteriorated and so does this review. I realised on entry that the bearded man lived at the yoga place. I was in his bathroom. And it was covered in stickers of Hindu Gods, toilet seat included. But the worst bit was there was only one towel and it was big. Which meant it was probably the towel he used to shower with and I didn't want to wipe my hands on it. That, combined the plethora of garden gnomes (in a bathroom?) pretty much told me all I needed to know: I should get the fark out of there. Not because of any wierd serial killer vibe just because it was definitely going to be one of those breathing-type sessions, possibly with chanting and I'd really rather walk the dog.

Of course, the mature thing to do would be to just say this to the bearded man and his other customer. Instead, I pretended I had to go to my car to get some water and then just drove off. Clearly, I am a weiner. But not that sort of weiner, congressman anthony.

Later Toby text me - because I'd called his mobile and he had my number - : Hi its toby from yoga i guess this was your number, im sorry, you must have felt uncomfortable. Good luck with your yoga.

I responded: Thanks Toby, sorry to flee! Not my thing i think. Take case and best of luck yourself.

Of course the 'take case' is meant to be take care, hopefully he is savvy with predictive text.

And so, that's what the land of yoga is like. Great if you're into that sort of thing.

Kitty x