Yoga

Tuesday morning at the Dojo. Retired ladies, sponge mat floors, the paraphernalia of a winter yoga session; blankets and cushions, a jostle for a spot in the sun, the chatter and gossip; weather, sick relatives, arthritic joints, until Catherine taps the bell and silences them.
Deep breaths to fill your lungs and silence your mind. The moustached kitchen porter from Les Minotiers, next door, drops bags into the bin, rubs his hands on his white apron, leans against the wall and lights a fag - deep breaths to silence the mind.
Asanas and pranayama. We mimic exotic birds, cobras, dogs and grasshoppers, we put our socks back on, cover ourselves with blankets and listen to Catherine's voice lull us into calmness or sleep.