The Joy of Sun

I have 22 pc battery power left on my laptop, so I'd better make this quick.  It helps that I also desperately need the loo so this is going to be a drive-by blogging - so to speak.  I don't really have a point for today's post (why change now?) also touching cloth makes it very hard to concentrate ...too much info?  OK.  I'll refrain.  I guess I just want to record, for posterity, before the irreparable rip of reality takes away this gorgeous summer loving we've been enjoying here in London and much of the UK (but not Wales or Scotland...that would just be weird).  It's just been so freaking deliciously warm and sunny.  It's been a summer of blue skies, hazy, balmy nights and happy chirpy citizens.  And I love it. It's what I imagine living on the West Coast of America might be like. I fantasize that I am in fact walking down a road in San Fran or meandering through the LA hills..cept you can't walk in LA as the distances, I've been told, are deceptively far (also it's probably not that safe).  Additionally, since turning vegan, I've lost a lot of that middle age spread that creeps onto backs, ribs and hips to the point that last week I was able to dig out two dresses I last wore when I was 31 (more than 10 years ago and we'll leave it at that) which now fit me perfectly again.  In fact, I remember the yellow strapless dress in particular feeling tight-ish back then and promptly being relegated to the back of the wardrobe whence it stayed until last week.  The unsightly hip and lower back chunks - the muffin top and cake shelf - are gone and I'm having one last body honeymoon before even veganism fails this old frame of mine.  And if you are thinking about the wisdom of a 42 year old wearing little cloths from the early 90s again, yes you'd be right, I am just on the cusp of "mutton" here but fear not, I make sure I only wear these kerchief-like dresses with flat shoes.  The face is still that of a 42 year old (albeit a well preserved one) and I do apologise in advance to any young man who has thought it was his lucky day only to have me turn around and be reminded it's been a while since he last called his mother.  At this stage, I'll consider that a compliment.

I'm off to Canada next week where mental met illness - to see the outlaws.  It will be strange arriving looking brown as a berry from London sun.  Were it not for the fact that I'm there to visit people, rather than places I'd hardly deem a holiday worth it this year.  Now that's the joy of sun.

Don't Feed the Animals

Yesterday I watched a more than grown man lick his plate clean in the cafeteria of a first class London yoga studio – let’s call it Triyoga, Primrose Hill.  He actually put his knife and fork down, out of the way, picked up his plate and licked from diameter to diameter, circumference to circumference and for good measure gave a few quick tongue darts around the radius.  At first I thought it was his playful way of giving compliments to the chef (beats farting and burping as is the custom is some parts) and that he was play licking but soon it was clear that he was not pretending at all – that he was in fact honest to goodness slurping every last morsel.  30 seconds passed before the sucking stopped.  Time it.  That is a long time licking.  He also had a beard which made it all the more repulsive.  Now, yogis tend to put the 'less' into “laissez-faire” at the worst of times and that’s all well and far out man, but I draw the line at a middle-aged gent with money enough to do yoga at one of London’s most elite yoga studios licking food off a plate.  If that wasn't irksome enough he then said to no-one in particular: “Less washing-up.”  I was not so much tempted to give a knowing (if tired) smile acknowledging the playfulness (?) of his actions/words as I was to shove that plate up his bum and invite him to wait a few moments for seconds.  As a devoted yogi, I should practice non-judgement, however in the event that this plate ever makes it under any food I order I wish to say for the record: the man is a cock.   It’s an interesting place, ‘the yoga studio’ -  in many ways it’s actually the meeting place for the world’s least laid back and most precious which I've always found amusingly contradictory but then again people who have a “healthy” obsession with yoga tend to come with tonnes of baggage they need to check in.  In fact far from surprising me, yoga studios should come with a warning:  Beware of the dogs.