My pal next door at work took one look at my aura of harriedness last week and informed me that I would be joining her for lunchtime yoga. All I have to do is say the word "yoga" and I'm awash with feelings of wholesomeness. It rolls around my mouth like a gobbet of wholebran organic vegan muffin, premasticated by unionised freerange indigenous marsupials. I feel my toenails growing thicker, my eyebrows bushier, my gluteus maximus hardening into something that Michelangelo would carve in marble. The word "yoyo" does not inspire the same effect.
Today was Welcome to Lunchtime Yoga day. Though my spine is stretched, I have biceps, and I'm feeling almost indecently relaxed, the best thing of all were the sentences like this 'un: "This position is downward-facing dog, which is called adho mukha svanasana in Sandscript". Ah, Sandscript, sacred language of the Oil-Rigveda.