Mr E. Man? Or Yogi?

When I said it was ‘hot’ yoga I think Mr E must have imagined Alessandra Ambrosio or Madonna or Jennifer Anniston, so when I asked him to join me for a Hot Bikram yoga class he shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head and we agreed to go the follow morning. It was not a work day and his alarm was turned off, so when I woke him for the class he groaned like a bear woken from hibernation and pulled himself reluctantly from his duvet-cave. He had no time for Coco Pops, didn’t bother with a drink, and forgot his towel as he lolloped out the door. Upon arrival at the studio he shrugged off the advice that you have at least a litre of water before practising and after he had borrowed a pound to borrow a towel, he lay down on the matt next to me.

He hadn’t got far through the sequence when the temperature became intense and he flicked his hair to try to swat away the heat that massed around his temples. Red-faced, he swayed forwards in the poses and blinked the briny sweat out of his eyes. Hours of training for the school teams had taught him the importance of stamina and he refused to miss a posture or rest to catch his breath (or his consciousness, which he was dangerously close to losing), for fear of being thought weaker than the others.

His foot slipped twice from his sweaty grip and his balance was suffering. Awkward pose he thought he mastered, but his standing bow nearly ended spread-eagled and he was allowed just in time to slap his beaten, tender steak of a body onto the matt on the floor.

When the class ended he hurried out into the cool air and panting, propped himself against the wall. Worried he had been wilting, he now seemed improved: yes…he felt better, stronger, more supple. But he hasn’t been back yet.