Teaching Yoga

It was Christmas day, yet for some strange reason I found myself teaching a Yoga class. But knowing next to nothing about the practicialities of Yoga I was doing the best I could to blag my way through...

There were about 8 or 9 people in the class and many of them seemed surprisingly old. I remember thinking how frail and weak a few of them appeared. It was also very evident that they were absolute beginners, with even less knowledge of Yoga than me; hence my apparent ability to bamboozle them with my fradulent mastery of the Yogic arts.

"Why on earth are they spending Christmas Day trying to learn Yoga from me?" I wondered, "...And at their age?"

Anyway, I continued the class, confidently conning them all with a series of flamboyant, twisty moves that sprung up from my imagination. Standing before them all I would rapidly demonstate the next maneovre, in a swift, superficial manner that allowed me not to strain mysself in anyway yet somehow implied that I couldn't be bothered to show them the precise technicalities because I found the posture far too easy; it would be beneath me to spend my time demonstrating such amateur acrobactics.

To make myself seem more convincing I laced my instructions with detailed histories explaining the origins and philospophies behing the moves...giving each posture some ludicrous, exotic title
such as "Flight of the Pink Turtle" as I demonstrated it and then explaining which muscles it worked and how it benefit their lives in ever more fantastical ways...Occasionaly hands were raised and questions asked, but somehow I glided through, bombarded them with eastern jargon and complicated, incomprehensible answers...

So there I was, instructing a group that ranged from the middle-aged to the slighty decrepid, to stretch, tense, curve and curl their bodies into a maddening array of made-up stances. I was half enjoying myself - amused at making them perform ever more challenging and embarrasingly awkaward commands - whilst also worrying that any moment my true ignorance would be revealed.

Then suddenly a nasty, spine shivering CRACK bounced off the walls and echoed through the hall. It was the kind of sound that carries and conveys the unmistakeable vibration of something thats gone very, very wrong. It was an shrill chord of piercing pain. An ugly, ugly sound... Everyone turned to see a small, greay haired lady who'd collapsed whilst straining to perform an elaborate head-stand type feat, the details of which I'd briefly brushed over just moments before.

" My back" she whimpered "I think its broken"

Instant panic set in as I realised the enormity of the situation. I was a fake yoga teacher! No qualifications, no insurance, no legal safety-net! And my dis-honest incompetance had caused this poor old lady to suffer a ghastly, horrible injury.

I picked up a phone and tried to call an ambulance. But becasue it was christmas the operator said we may have to wait hours and hours...

Whilst I and the group sat round the old lady, waiting for the ambulance, I decided I'd better come clean...

The Queen is Dead

I woke, stumbled out of bed, made my way to the kitchen on automatic-zombie. Switched on the kettle, turned on the telly...

At first tiredness muffled the News caster's mournful mumbling of enunciated whispers. But as I sat, wiping away gooey white streaks of sleep from my eyes, the gravitas-laden tones of the BBC began to penetrate my consciousness:

"It's now thought that her Majesty the Queen passed away sometime between 3 and 4 am this morning. Early reports seem to confirm that her Majesty committed suicide..."

I sat slack-jawed. The Queen had killed herself! Reached for the remote control, turned up the volume, sat aghast as more revelations were revealed:

"We're now joined by Mr. Herbert Smythe, biographer and long-term confidante of the Royal Household. Mr. Smythe, as an authority on the Queen and her life, are you as shocked at the extraordinary manner of her death? I mean it seems so out of character..."

Herbert Smythe went on to postulate on what may have caused the Queen to take such drastic action. He explained that it was almost undoubtedly due to the recent publication in the press of private photographers from the Queen's youth. I wondered how I'd missed this recent furore, but thankfully the entire subject was quickly recapped -

It transpired that some sensational images of the young Queen had somehow "turned up" and been sold to the Tabloids. They were obviously form the "Swinging Sixties"; old, grainy, black and white prints imbued with the atmosphere of some stylish French film.

They were deemed so scandalous because they portrayed a casual, care-free Queen enjoying life with gay abandonment. There were shots of her pulling faces, flirting with the camera, smoking cigarettes, lazing and lounging in provocative poses and caught in romantic embraces with none other than Bob Dylan!

Herbert Smythe went on to explain that for a brief period, during Dylan's first visit to England, he and her Majesty had enjoyed an incredibly intense whirl-wind romance. The young royal, already besotted with his poetic lyrics, invited him to a secret dinner at Buckingham Palace. At that very first meeting her Majesty fell head over heels in love with the scruffy, beatnik bohemian and for a few fraught weeks their clandestine relationship threatened, not only to destroy her marriage, but to fracture the very foundations of the British "Establishment".

They failed to mention precisely how the Queen had chosen to take her life, but their seemed to be an unspoken implication that it was a gruesome, violent method, "too shocking" to reveal in any detail.

The Newscasters were visibly upset and ashen, correspondents voices were trembling and there long pauses of silent paper-fumbling, malfunctioning links and a noticeable lack of autocue. The studio was in disarray. No one had been prepared for this. And no one would be going to work today. Tony Blair had declared a national day of mourning.

The news rolled on in a continuous loop, but that particular segment ended with the News Reader's noting that:

"At present Bob Dylan has declined to comment"

Albert

Someone called Mike Pike (or similar) offered me a job. He always wore a suit and was a headmaster or professor at a prestigious educational residence. It was some sort of trainee, research position which also incorporated an element of teaching. I jumped at the chance, particularly as I had an avid interest in his area of expertise. It was a golden opportunity and almost seemed too good to be true!

On my first day there's the obligatory tour and introduction to staff and students. All seems fine and dandy but all day long I notice that Mike Pike seems, well, oddly on edge. He speeds up stairs and through corridors, scurrying along at a frantic pace. His eyes never stay still, they dart this way and that, scanning north, east, south and west; constantly on guard. He treats me with exaggerated courtesy, going out of his way to provide tea and snacks, extra furnishings for my room -

"Anything you fancy - Anything at all? No really. You name it, you've got it."

When we talk he's apologetically polite; intones my name with sugar-laden familiarity and tip-toes over details with a light, evasive air. In my mind he starts to take on the persona of a slimy, desperate car salesman or estate agent. I can't help but feel suspicious and begin to suspect he's keeping something from me...

He shows me the "Pool" (seemed like the sea or a natural lake, but all situated indoors) and we suited-up into scuba gear. His research seemed to involve the study of the bizarre flora, fauna and life-forms of the Pool bed). Down in the deep we swam, witnessing a magnificent, colourful array of strange never-before-seen-creatures. I felt honoured and privileged to be witnessing such wonders.

Then, as we climbed out of the pool, Mike Pike asks - in a quick, contrived, it's-now-or-never manner that betrays his reticence to say it:

"Oh, by the way, I did give you the letter didn't I?"

"Er, no. What letter?" I reply.

"Oh, it's just this letter we give to all new staff" Mike says as he magically produces it and hands it over.

I open the envelope and begin to read. Below is a roughly recalled summation of it's content:

Dear New Member of Staff
It is our pleasure to welcome you to Such & Such School. We hope that you will find your time with us both enjoyable and rewarding. We value and respect all our staff and believe it is through their contribution that the school achieves excellence. We trust that you will develop a fond relationship with our student body.
In particular we would like to make you aware of one of our students: Albert, whom some of the students have unkindly nicknamed "The Biting Boy". Albert is a warm and friendly child who shows much promise. Unfortunately, he has been known to bite both staff and students. It is for this reason that we recommend that all staff abstain from wearing shorts or short-sleeved shirts. It is recommended that you bare the minimum amount of flesh as possible so as not to facilitate one of Albert's fits.
In the event that you are bitten please be assured that recent medical checks have ensured that there is no current risk from rabies or infection of any kind.
We look forward to working with you.

Yours sincerely
Mike Pike

The letter scares me. But before I can ask Mike Pike any further details he rushes away. Leaving the pool building I'm caught in a throng of slowly marching, mingling students. Panic starts to set in as I nervously eye their faces, wondering if one of them is the notorious Albert...

"Hello, Sir" an innocent looking lad pipes up.

I casually nod acknowledgment, taking a couple of side-steps to distance myself from the group. Once they've passed, and no one's looking, I sprint away - hurtling for the safety of my room, haunted by the fear of an attacking Albert.

One-liner

Jumbled up, mish-mash of dreams last night. Only thing I can clearly remember is been sat in a pub and hearing someone shout "Welsh pack, lightening Jack!" over and over again...weird.

All the things I've ever killed...

Since awakening from the dream below the thought of "all the things I've ever killed" has nagfully lingered over me.. Have decided to compile a list (to be added to as I remember more, or in the unwelcome event that I kill more things).

Decided will only include life I have directly destroyed. Ignoring deaths indirectly contributed to by virtue of my food intake. Having once being a meat-eater, and now a fish-eater, I have certainly colluded in the slaughter of hundreds, if not thousands of innocent animals. However, I never "pulled the trigger" and as such (perhaps coldly in denial) their blood has failed to stain my conscious. Anyway...here goes my confession:

1) Plenty of Plant Life

I've plucked flowers, killed weeds and stood, stamped and sat on various flora and fauna throughout my life. I must of murdered an innumerable amount of greenery. Apart from killing I've constantly maimed - flippantly pulling branches from trees, mowing down grass, picking fruits and berries, pruning this, pruning that... Of course we humans assume that plant life is not sentient, void of consciousness, completely without soul. But who are we to know...

2) Thousands of Insects

Gleefully I've squatted flies. Spraying them and their like with noxious, suffocating gases. As a child I set up insecticoid Guantamano bay's, imprisoning creepy-crawlies of all shapes and sizes, only to pull off their wings, snap their antenna or drown the still squirming creatures. Remember inventing a game that I played for hours, bouncing a tennis ball off an army of ants climbing the wall...I kept on going, massacring till all of them were mashed.

3) Arachnids

I've turned on the taps and watched spiders, small and large, waving all eight legs, vainly trying to paddle as they spiral down the plughole.

4) Cockroaches

I've squished and squashed my fare share of these, admittedly vile, looking beings. Why would a God of love, compassion and beauty create the cockroach? Who knows, but their unpleasing appearance is certainly no excuse for my murderous actions.

5) Worms

Not for a long time now, but I recall in my youth, over-doing my experimentation with these creatures ability to regenerate when cut in half. Child-hood curiosity led me to ascertain if the ugly, wriggly things could regenerate from ever smaller segments...Once you get past quarters it turns out they can't, but in the name of science my trials continued.

6) Ticks

I've burnt ticks off dogs ears, then squashed the pus-filled parasites with my heel.

7) Lizards

Similar scenario to the worms. Was fascinated by the lizards ability to regrow limbs. Would capture them, decapitate appendages, watch and wait. After much study, with dozens of "volunteers", was able to conclude that lizards are unable to regrow their heads.

8) Mice

I've lain poison. I've put out back-breaking snap taps, smeared with tantalizing, tempting snacks like peanut butter and slithers of chocolate, slices of cheese. I put out glue traps and buckets of beer. I'm guilty of trying to kill these vermin in every imaginable way possible. And now and then I've succeeded. And to think we share 99% of our DNA...We're practically related, yet I didn't think twice.

9) A bird

Seven years old. Skipping down the street with my sister beside me. A family of tiny songbirds passes by, flying low, leaving a trail of chirping. By some freak accident my skipping foot, raised high in the air, blocks the path of one tiny bird and causes a mid-air collision.

The little creature fell to the ground. We picked it up. It was still alive but motionless. We took it home, me crying my eyes out whilst my sister assured me

"He'll be okay. We'll call the RSPCA and they'll know what to do."

She rang the number, whilst I cradled the tiny, light as air, bundle of pretty brown feathers in my hands. I can clearly see it's little head right now. It was still making chirp-chirp noises and its eye were constantly blinking, but the body didn't - couldn't - move.

Of course, the RSPCA didn't come rushing out to save a tiny songbird with a broken skull. They just said "Let it die peacefully". I remember we tried to give it water, dripping droplets from a pipette...Then I held it, gently stroking its downy back, singing to it with my sobs as it slipped away.

We made a little bed for it. I prayed before I slept. Next morning it was dead. I cried and cried, convinced I had murdered this beautiful, innocent beast. We buried it in the garden and I kept on crying.

Definitely the largest thing I've ever killed. And certainly the most traumatic.

10) Bacteria/Germs

I've bought all those Antibacterial surface cleaners and soaps. I've put Detal in water and scrubbed whole civilisations of microbes to their doom. But in my defence I'm sure I've also - especially in my student days - afforded such life-forms many opportunities to thrive and multiply.

11)....To be continued.

7.4 on the Scary Scale

Disturbed and restless night; haunted by gruesome visions. Running. Fighting. Arguing. Caught up in a crazed panic. Some God-awful distopia, cursed with perpetual night, peopled by desperate vagrants and devilish madmen. An entire race in wretched rags. A population of psychotic tramps, thin and gaunt, eyes bloodshot and bulging. They steal, stab and scavenge to survive. Every man for himself...

Running amongst them, horrified by what I see. A stranger's shoulder collides with mine. Eye contact. A menacing look.

"Sorry..."

The stranger gives a sadistic smile, his lips a pale isle of pink amidst a sea of stubble.

"Too late for that" he snarls and suddenly he's chasing me, roaring and screaming - a battle cry that calls to him companions. Engulfed by absolute terror, franticly fleeing on anguished, automatic-pilot . Scrambling down dark streets we race, six or seven athletic lunatics hot on my heels. Wheezing, panting, sweating pure adrenaline. On and on it goes, the furious horde recruiting as we go; growing larger, gaining ground! Shouting a chorus of obscenities. Blood-curdling threats infused with hate and anger.

Jumping, crawling, climbing to escape. Desperate to evade pursuit. Hoping that, somewhere, somehow, there's a favourable finish line for this deadly decathlon.

Then the net is cast. A dark, heavy web falls from above, clothing me like an unwelcome garment. Tripping, tangled up in tight, ropey knots. Trapped. Surrounded. They push and prod their prey, kicking, spitting, playfully tormenting.

The pipe in my pocket is wooden. A small, carved musical instrument. Clasped with a steely grip I extract it unseen. Must defend myself. Violence is the only way. Uneager of what must follow...

With swift ferocity I attack, viousiously swinging the pipe through the netting, impaling its pointed end far within the fleshy throat of the nearest dirty-faced nomad. A crimson fountain spurts and wells from the wound. The pipe lashes out again, digging deep into the belly of another horrific hobo. Again I strike, administering vengeful justice with no hint of mercy. Soon my breath sings alone in the quiet night air. Around, swampy red ground, littered with lifeless limbs; frosen faces, painfully slain.

Goliath guilt rises up inside. I have become like them. Worse than them. I have taken life. I am a murderor....

Bits and Pieces

Sleep patterns recently changed. Rising earlier; seems to have effected quality of dream recall. Now tend to wake clutching convoluted fragments, too nebulous to narrate...Best remembered snippets have included:

Costa Del Darfur

Sat in a travel agency, urgently determined to book a last minute package holiday. Eagerly explaining to the agent both budget limitations and an adventurous daring to embrace any destination, so long as it's-

"Cheap, hot and sunny!"

"Hmmm...Well, we've got an unbelievable deal right now" the agent exclaims and proceeds to describe the delightful details - Grand resort, great room, glorious restaurant!

Muggins is totally sold, overly excited, doesn't even comprehend what country it's in.

"Fantastic! We'll take it."

In a haze of holiday euphoria the plane glides down, a connecting coach crawls through dusty desert and suddenly we're at the hotel. Almost immediately my better half (or perhaps more accurately my "better three-quarters" as suspect that the share of good qualities is not equally divided between us) adopts a permanent scowl and an air of shocked disdain.

Perplexed I attempt to buoy her mood by entering into the holiday spirit with frivolous abandonment - tempting her down to the pool, ordering room service; extravagant cocktails, sizzling snacks. But this only serves to make things worse; till finally she spits with accusing disbelief:

"You do realize where we are don't you?"

"Yeah - We're on holiday"

"We're bloody well in Darfur!"

"Oh..."

This certainly puts a dampener on the situation. To make matters worse the next morning huge clouds cluster the sky and the rest of our stay is hampered by uncharacteristically wet weather. I sulk and curse the travel agent; unable to enjoy myself in any way for fear of being admonished for forgetting "those less fortunate than ourselves" whose close proximity I've so stupidly chosen for our excessive, vulgar vacation.


Christopher "Care-Bear" Walken

On set, witnessing filming of a new Sci-Fi epic, starring non-other than the wickedly cool Walken. The scene being shot somehow seems to incorporate all of the finished special effects right now, as it's acted. Christopher Walken is some kind of alien, or highly evolved human, capable of projecting a shimmering beam of energy that shoots out like a dazzling ray from the centre of his chest.

Acting in spectacular bursts of real-life slow-motion, Walken does battle with similarly endowed beings, all radiating their own colourful laser-like emanations. The effects of the energy seems to depend on the particular power that the alien possesses. Red rays seem to melt things, blue one's immobilise, green one's calm and heal, yellow one's inflict pain etc.

Suddenly the concept feels very familiar and I quietly comment -

"It's a bit like the Care Bears isn't it?"

"Shhhh! Keep quiet!" Someone shout-whispers.

Walken glares at me and the filming continues.

The Eccentric Elderly Relative

No one I know from the waking world, but a woman was relating an anecdote about their eccentric elderly relative - it was either their Grandmother or their Great Aunt - As they told their tale the scenes played out before me...

"So, you see, she came to stay with us for a few weeks whilst she was recuperating" my dream companion explained.

A distinguished looking, silver-haired lady sat up-right in bed, a blanket round her shoulders. Delicately sipping a cup of steaming chai, a shiny tea tray perched on her lap, an open book resting on her pillow.

"She mostly stayed in bed. But she would insist on bathing daily".

Someone tightly turned the taps of a lavish looking bath, all gleaming marble and sparkling brass, frothing over with baby-soft bubbles.

"We usually left her to it, just checking on her now and then" the story-teller continued. "But on this one occasion..."

The woman in my dream stood by the closed bathroom door, straining to hear the signature splish-splashing that confirmed all was well. "Everything alright in there?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you dear" came a croaky reply. "But, would you mind bringing a flannel?"

The woman returned soon after, fresh flannel in hand. She knocked politely before easing the door open. The sight inside greeted her like a lion about to leap, and she reacted much the same, screeching out a nauseous chord and trembling with a fierceful fright.

Bubbling water swayed and slopped over the marble rim, dripping off a wrinkled hand, adorned with rings but hanging limply.

The old lady's head lay buried beneath the bubbles. Momentarily frozen the woman rushed forwards, slipping and sliding on the moist floor, squealing and shrieking like a piglet in pain.
Her hands dived and delved through the foam, grasping and gripping at the frail figure so deeply submerged in the soapy suds. She scooped up her elderly relative, wailing despondently, assuming the worst.

"As you can imagine, I was completely distraught!"

Then suddenly the old lady's eye's sprang open, her mouth curled into a mischievous smile and she let out a cunning cackle. Triumphant tears rained down her cheeks and her small, shrivelled body convulsed as she coughed, mirthfully choking on her laughter. Hysterically happy.

"The old dear found it hilarious. Turns out she's got quite a habit of pretending to die" the woman told me. "She fooled us four more times that fortnight. Once by laying at the bottom of the stairs, all crumpled up as if she'd fallen..."

The anecdote continued with yet more examples which unfortunately I can't recall.