SWB on yoga, dental hygiene and provocative dancing

If a week goes by without a few downward dogs then I’m not in a good place. I have a couple of favourite yoga hangouts- Tuesday morning in Lorag with the inimitable Rain, and then Flow Studios, either Hill Street or Malone Road. Any of the teachers are brilliant there- you’ll never come away short changed. So last week, I was all ready to do my yoga, with Rain, wee outfit an’ all on, but I had a visit to the dentist first. I thought this was going to be a short procedure, but turns out getting impressions done for implants is, in fact, horrific. ‘Every part of this is brutal,’ sighed my world-weary dentist, as he prised a gluey blue mould off my top teeth, and it felt like every last tooth left in my head was coming off with it. Quick word here: Look. After. Your. Teeth. Follow your offspring round the house with a toothbrush and wrestle the fecking Haribo out of their hands. They’ll thank you when they’re 37 and haven’t wasted thousands of pounds and spent endless hours of misery in the dentist’s chair. Far too many Fanta orange beverages and insufficient flossing on my part have led to a painful and costly reckoning. Pam Ayres, God bless her, was right, and I ought to have taken heed. Anyway, having missed a week, today’s yoga session was a benison to the soul: one of those glorious occasions where body and mind work in cohesion and you want to melt on to that mat (preferably in reverse corpse posture, which sounds much nicer than it actually is). Clearly I just needed grounded, my wee body crying out for stillness. Just as I type, some frigger at 6 Music has decided to play Uber Capitalist Death by Cabbage. It’s every bit as vile as it sounds. Radio 2, it’s over to you. Restless by Louis Berry, that’s more like it.

Oh God, Oh God, something terrible has happened. My first born, who has always been an innocent sort of creature, has just taken off round the communal kitchen/living area, performing a quite shockingly provocative dance. She’s shaking and gyrating her bottom, her hands mimicking paws as she squeals ‘IT’S A WAGGY WAGGY DANCE’. She loves being Rocky from Paw Patrol so she’s obviously fused the ‘pup pup boogie’ with something more sinister. I need a drink.

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