Well, I thought with the weather improving - by that I mean not raining every day - that I would have a go at practising yoga again.

After all at the beginning of the year I did purchase a new yoga mat, so all the good intentions must have been there.

I used to like yoga - it’s a slow, gentle exercise that’s designed to improve inner strength and inner peace and I can tell you at this moment I could certainly do with both, and lots of it. Some people move silently along, from one posture to another, flowing like a gentle stream. Like a flower gently blowing in the wind, like a leaf gently floating silently to the ground… And then there’s me; to me it’s spending a hour rolling, or staggering around, making grunting noises as my body protests at every move whilst trying not to fart.

Now you may not know this, but yoga is a Sanskrit word meaning ‘union’. This gentle, low-impact form of movement began more than 3,000 years ago in India as a way to promote the union of mind, body and spirit.

The practice incorporates physical postures called asanas, with breathing practice and meditation. The body positions should be preformed steadily and comfortably, to improve inner concentration, human health and harmony.

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Well for most yogarists - I made that word up - they seem to have mastered the art perfectly.

I am honestly in awe of these spiritual beings, who appear to be in tune with their inner powers, their inner voice and have connected to their higher spiritual systems. Is it only me from the back of the class who huffs and puffs making a noise that could if unseen be mistaken for a hippopotamus rolling around in a mud bath, trying to get back up. When others are concentrating on gently breathing in and out while their heads are between their legs, I am trying not to hold my breath and under no circumstances allow any musical notes to escape from my bottom.

While others are finding their inner voice I’m having a right good old argument with mine and telling it to shut up and let me concentrate on breathing gently and not gasping instead of wondering what we could have for our teas.

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Or, where the heck I put my gardening trowel because I know that I had it the other day. And then, just as I begin to take control over my inner voice, breathing and not pooping on the lady in front of me, I remembered that I had a pack of Crunchie bars in the fridge. Surely after all this stretching and breathing - not to mention the stress of connecting with my inner self - I deserve a bar when I get home, all saying that I don’t have to detour to hospital on my way home.

Let’s face it: if I had to spend 12 hours sat in A and E my inner peace will have disappeared. No, I needed to go straight home. Everyone was now laying down gracefully, whilst I dropped like a brick from an upstairs window. I open one eye and look around as others seem to be going on a relaxing journey, I can’t stop thinking about the bloody Crunchie bar and how the honeycomb gets stuck in my teeth. Now I am overcome with guilt, I should be thinking of white fluffy clouds and crashing waves, not sinking my teeth into a Crunchie bar. As the instructor asks everyone to slowly sit up when they are ready, I watch as others seem to just float up and gently stretch.

I need to make a plan. I turn onto my side, lifting myself on to hands and knees, telling my inner voice to go and do one, and as I grab the offered hand of help from a very sprightly eighty something, yes you guessed it, a musical note escaped from my back trumpet.

Oh, just give me the Crunchie… please!