Yoga

The instructor wears nothing but a pair of black lycra hot shorts ill-disguised beneath a salmon pahmina which flicks its tassels coquettishly in the air. He is a man, of sorts. Today he is clean shaven, based over, with eye-liner to boot. ‘Hello darlings’, he lisp-shouts into the small crowd of people in the studio - now on mats. A general greeting is mumbled and returned unanimously. ‘Ok everyone! Let’s start with a simple Half-Cobra or Ardha-bhujangasana.’, he announces, spluttering out the last bit in an effeminate Indian accent. Soon everyone is contorting on the mats – mimicking the instructor’s compromising and often theatrical positions. In the background, incense fills the mirrored studio with the scent of cloves and a meditative ‘hum’ wafts from the boom box speakers. I am told to embrace ‘peace’, ‘love’ and my ‘vaginal chakra’. I’m suddenly aware that I don’t have a vagina, and neither does he. Unperturbed, I begin to hone my camel pose – a rather lopsided affair. When the session is over, the instructor thanks the class, Buddha and God and scampers out of the studio with a camp fluttering of a pashmina trailing behind him.