Why Scotland
Holyrood, trams, bridges, hospitals... why does everything we do go wrong, asks an allegedly ‘Zen’ Kevan Christie
Seeing as it’s Saturday I feel compelled to share with the group moments of sheer bliss that I have experienced this week.
The reason for being what can only be described as ‘Zen as f***’ is the regular yoga classes I have been attending at my local gym.
Now, when I say yoga I don’t mean the poseur version beloved of Meghan Paltrow and those flexible blokes in the kilts who should probably be arrested for exposing themselves. Jealous much? Nothing hot or sweaty going on here – move along please.
No dear reader, I’m talking about the all-together more relaxed Hatha version of the pursuit that involves some gentle stretching then a lovely nap at the end. Comfort blanket optional.
This is ideal exercise for the middle-aged man with dodgy knees, who fancies himself as a big cheese in the care home 30 years from now.
The kind of guy who hasn’t stretched for decades and perhaps played a bit of football where the
warm-up consisted of firing shots into the hapless goalkeeper until the ball went over the big fence. Sound familiar?
They should have yoga on the NHS and in fact they probably do. I stumbled on it having previously tried various classes at various gyms over the years in a bid to lose weight and stave off early death.
These have included: Bodypump, which is a mixture of squatting with weights combined with mechanical engineering, and Body Combat, where you try to kill an imaginery opponent while Tartan Techno plays in the background and an instructor who appears to be on MDMA (I’m more worried if he wasn’t) screams at you. It was all a bit stressful.
But after a few classes I’ve settled into the old yoga to the point where I now nod at fellow yogis who carry their mats under their arms with an air of cool, reminiscent of 60s revolutionaries walking around with the latest Dylan album.
Not for us the ridiculously overpriced Lululemon brand with its