I lie down and fight the constant urge to fidget. I hope I don’t sweat too much.

Tilly lies down and immediately seems at peace.

Tilly is by far my most trendy friend. We found each other one year when we happened to both be working at a very random, very local food fair where I was trying to make some extra money selling overpriced (and, quite frankly, fairly mediocre) brownies. I made no money, but I did make some fantastic memories. In particular, learning that Tilly made out with not one but both members of the duo who ran ‘R&Brie Bingo’, an entertainment stall hosted by two men who combined cheese puns, fake French accents, homosexual stereotyping, R&B and bingo all in one go. I’ve never seen them anywhere else, but I hope they’ve found success.

I am smiling to myself at the memory as Sal, my favourite yoga teacher, walks in.

Nothing if not a creature of habit, I always try to go to this specific class. Unlike the majority of yoga teachers, who have a perma-tan, a gravity-defying arse and a positive outlook on life, Sal keeps it real. He’s bitter, he has a bit of a belly, he wears old-man shorts that pose a serious sexual harassment risk, and he doesn’t waffle on about ‘practising with the body you have today’. And no matter how shit I am at yoga, I imagine that he’s even shitter. I’ve never actually seen him in a yoga pose (thank goodness, because the shorts really are inappropriate), and I’m not entirely convinced that he practises yoga at all.

We go through all the yoga poses without too much drama. I sweat an acceptable amount, and only get my lefts and rights confused a couple of times. But something is off. Sal is uncharacteristically happy.

We are all lying on our mats, the (acceptable amount of) sweat now drying, when Sal chirps in with a final piece of optimism.

‘I hope you found time in this practice to relax and refocus, allowing yourselves the space and freedom to really connect with and appreciate who you are. And remember this –’ insert dramatic pause for effect – ‘you are enough.’

Seriously, what has got into Sal? He must have got laid last night.

‘See you all here again next week. Namaste.’ There are echoing whispers of ‘Namaste’ throughout the room, and, so help me, despite my continuing bitterness, all of a sudden I feel emotional. Bloody Sal and his ‘you are enough’ has made me feel all kinds of things, and for some unknown reason I start crying. This might be worse than an accidental fart.

There is a lot of shuffling and movement in the room as everyone goes to hang up their mats and file out of the studio. I can hear Tilly getting up beside me but suddenly I’m not quite ready to leave, so I hide my eyes with a faux casual placement of my hand, and motion that I’m going to stay for a little longer but she should go get showered. I’ll meet her soon, once my eyes have stopped betraying me.