“This is my favourite time of the day.”
“Get out.”
“Don’t be like that. What you’re doing is fantastic.”
“It’s not fantastic. It’s yoga. Move along. No, that does not mean sit down in a chair to watch.”
“I love the bit when you thrust your choomlah at the sky, then bring it back down, then up at the sky, then back down…”
“Oh my God! I don’t need a running commentary.”
“Is that called the bungabunga movement?”
“Shut-up, idiot. I’m trying to breathe. No. It’s the Bridge pose.”
“What’s it called in Yogalian?”
“I have no idea. What are you doing?!”
“Lying down next to you. I’ve seen all I need to see from the chair. You should do more of that bungabunga thing.”
“Get up. Get out.”
“What? I’m being supportive. It’s all the rage at the moment.”
“You’re getting on my shit. And my rage will last for hours.”
“Can you do that one when your bum is up in the air? That’s hot. What’s that called? Is it Doggie Style?”
“Downward Dog, you crazed fuck.”
“Is there an Upward Dog? There should be an Upward Dog. For complete chakrah balance. And visual hotness.”
“Fuck off out of here. You are fucking my Shevasana.”
“Not yet I’m not. But you keep doing that and that’s pretty much what’s gonna happen.”
“Oh my fucken God!”
“What? Why are you yelling at me? I’m not the one writhing around on the floor in skin-tight pants and thrusting the choomlah up at the sky. Hey, have you ever considered doing it naked? Or just in a pair of heels?”
“Leave or die.”
“Namaste.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
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