Diving Dolphins

Yesterday evening, I thought I might never walk again. This was as a result of my new class, which is basically a bunch of grown women attempting to clamber about with, on and under large purple space hoppers (less friendly ones – no smiley faces or helpful handles).

Most of Tuesday night was spent moonlighting as a glamorous waiting girl (glamorous because I was wearing sparkly shoes – not the sinister sort of glamorous) to a lot of half-crazed men who gulped glasses of wine in two swigs and licked the fillings out of sandwiches before putting them back for someone else. I got home around the witching hour with the realisation that my space hopper class was the following day. I therefore needed to dig out my two non-smiling space hoppers (and find the plug that stops the air whistling loudly out while I am sitting on it, slowly sinking to the ground). Please note at this stage that the finding of the plug took about half an hour/forty five minutes.

The class started badly. We arrived with our limp space hoppers (I made attempts to blow one up on the way there – however had to stop due to an attack of light-headedness) to find that everyone else was already doing “the swan” on fully blown up purple blobs.

We were summarily sent off to a supply of pre-puffed balls and non-stick mats while the other class members moved onto the “down-dog”.

So as not to go on, I will summarise. I ended up with a ball the size of Jupiter, which I then had to cling on to with my ankles while lying down and throwing my feet backwards over my head, amongst other unsightly and ungainly moves, while the teacher gently assured us that this was the “gazelle” or “graceful eagle” or “soaring swallow” or something, when in reality, it surely better resembled the clumsy hippo.

I cannot pretend that the end of the class was not a relief, however the knowledge that I have signed up to another 13 classes keeps waking me at night in a cold sweat. Combined with the fact that the total cost of the 14 classes was doubled by the cunning sales techniques of the wily teacher. The costs started spiralling out of control when she announced that I should just throw my two (largely unused) space hoppers in the bin and buy one of her fancy purple ones and that under no circumstances should we shop at argos for our wears, because frankly, you get what you pay for, she said as she added a fifteen pound non-slip mat to my total amount owed. Yes – FIFTEEN POUNDS! For a non slip mat. I ask you.

So I have decided to sell my balls (ooh-er) at a car boot sale. Slight problem, as the plug that took me 45 minutes to find has now gone AWOL. I blame the friend I went with. As far as I am concerned, that ball was under her care as we rushed out of the room, trying to look convincingly like it wasn’t us that had been giggling throughout the class.