Reading Tim Dowling’s article (Now you’re talking, 6 January), I was reminded of my only foray into a yoga retreat in 2003. A perfect Yorkshire Dales setting, organic vegetarian garden food and a renowned yogi instructor. After two full days, during the 7am (pre-breakfast) pranayama class, I was focused on “in for the count of three, out for the count of six” when I distinctly heard in my head, my ex: “What! You paid £170 for a weekend of learning to breathe in and out? They saw you coming!”
I corpsed, not in shavasana, but in a gut-splitting, helpless, giggling fit. I retired in disgrace, to the organic garden, with my cigs, an illegal espresso from the nearest garage and Saturday’s Guardian. The sun was shining, the bees buzzing, the birds tweeting and I felt joyful.
Fi Oakes
Holmfirth, West Yorkshire
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