Last night I went to my yoga class, leaving strict instructions with daughter not to let son view any more "Saw" trailers on YouTube. Yoga has transformed me, flexibility-speaking. As I got near fifty, my limbs and joints seemed to start seizing up, petrifying I think the word is. Not good for morale. When I had to pick something up off the floor I would glance around to see what else I could do while I was down there - just like that old joke. Very funny. Within six months I was a new woman, or a bendier one at least. I can't quite get my ankles crossed behind my neck but this is good enough for me. I can crouch right down to the lowest shelf in TK Max without feeling, or hearing, a thing. And I can get back up again.
I was a bit gloomy going to my class. Special Boy had come in from school with news of disastrous maths results. For once he wasn't angry and defensive, blaming his pencil/jotter/teacher/me, just sad and apologetic. I wanted to kiss and cuddle him and he actually let me. I think he's had a wake-up call and he's promising to pull up his socks, knuckle down and generally start listening in class. I left him doing maths revision from old workbooks I had bought for Gorgeous Girl at the same age. She went through a similar maths crisis and her (mainly wrong) 12-year-old answers were still there on the pages. But now look at her - third year of a law degree. So I'm trying not to worry unduly about Special Boy, although I will capitalise on his remorsefulnes for as long as possible.
After yoga I gave myself a bit of a facial. I wish I could report the beginnings of a transformation but I would be lying. I live in hope.
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