Ashtanga

I love a Monday day off. Today was a lesson in idleness. If Shama hadn’t persuaded me to come with her to Ashtanga yoga I wouldn’t have left the house. I didn’t even get out of bed until noon.

I made a couple of phone calls, booked an audition and had about a gallon of coffee. I watched a few episodes of The Good Place, ate crumpets, played FTL and read. At one point I halfheartedly messaged someone about voicereel stuff. At another I had some sausages and beans. Right up until I walked in the door of the studio I was coming up with reasons why I didn’t want to do Ashtanga. I don’t want to spend the money, it’s cold, I’ve never done Ashtanga before so I might not like it especially if it’s one of those ones that try to make you restrict your breath.

It wasn’t. It was mostly familiar from other yogas that I’ve dropped in and out of over the years. I was late, but Shama somehow contrived to be later.

The studio was in London bridge in an old tanners yard that has been converted into hipster offices in containers with bits of steel and wood jagging around signalling “cool” to people as they sick out their lives into offices. It’s a good studio. Wooden floors, but smelling of wood not feet. Lots of airflow. The woman next to me was extremely flexible so I was cribbing off her but not going so deep. I managed to achieve the headstand, thanks to Guildhall all those years ago. Some things stay in the body. God I could use three years of training like that again for my body. Going back to yoga is helpful, but in some of the inverted poses I caught sight of my belly and groaned. There’s a lot of work to do, and a lot of pies to avoid. Camino and dry January is helping but regular stuff like this is the key. And it’s hard to get motivated every … single … time.

I then went home through the chill, cocooned into bed, read a bit, and then got into bed, switched the light off, cuddled up with Pickle and started to drift off before uttering the word “fuck”, rolling over, grabbing my phone and writing this. It’s 3.13am. I’m not rehearsing tomorrow thankfully. Just grooming, cleaning out the van and sending invoices. But I can tell from the screaming of the vixens in the park over the river that it’s the dead of night. I should be asleep. I will be momentarily. That’ll do… Monday. Actor’s weekend. I can write a short one with one eye open. Back to cocooning in bed with a small cat. Zzzzz

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Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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