Out and about: let's go to the zoo!

Whenever I take a week of work I usually a) get told off by colleagues for not going away somewhere, and b) wing it. By winging it I mean I get up each day and decide what to do then and there. Aside from the traditional and always enjoyable shopping expedition to Kingston with Sparky Ma, this often results in me waking up late, having a cup of tea, then retiring to the sofa for an all-day DVD boxset marathon.

And while all-day DVD marathons are fun, they aren't exactly a good use of my 20 day holiday allowance, are they?

So this week, I decided to get off my backside and, y'know, do stuff. And what better to do then spend some quality time in one of the world's most brilliant cities - which also happens to be right on my doorstep (not literally).

I started with this:

Yes, the Prince Charles cinema in Leicester Square was showing all the Star Trek films in order. I didn't see all of them, but I did see two - the ying and the yang, the dizzying high and the terrible low: Star Trek V and Star Trek VI. I don't think I really need to explain which was the best one, do I? Truth be told, though, I actually really enjoyed Star Trek V, although it remains a pretty flawed movie. Take it as a given that VI was awesome. And it was a joy to see them on the big screen again after so many years.

Things really kicked off on Wednesday, though, when Best Mate Jo and I went to London Zoo. This was a cracking day out, and because I'm feeling lazy I'm just going to post photos along with some snappy and witty captions.

I can't for the life of me remember what this was, but we were both rather taken by its lovely eyes.

Giraffes. OBVIOUSLY.

Dramatic owl. This is a Burrowing Owl. It has a brain the size of a pea. That is my one Burrowing Owl fact.

Fake gorilla.

Monkey in silhouette.

I was going to tell the llamas that leg-warmers are out this season, but I thought they'd spit in my face.

Prairie Dog. Basically a fat Meerkat.

69-ing Aardvarks.

Meerkat: basically a thin Prairie Dog.

More Meerkats. You wouldn't believe how much these animals have to put up with people shouting "SIMPLES!" at them these days.

Sleepy Tiger.

Mick Jagger-fish.

It was while looking at this vibrant fish that I stunned Best Mate Jo by telling her that I thought Finding Nemo was dull.

Tiny orange frogs!

This sign is just *begging* to be altered for this website.

Temptingly close…

This Lion is called Lucifer because his zoo registration number is 666.

Disappointed to find there were no penguins in the penguin pool.

Found them eventually in a different pool on the other side of the zoo. This is Ricky. He gently flapped his wings and jumped dramatically from one rock to the one RIGHT NEXT TO IT.

Sexy shrimp!?

This made us laugh like specials.

Liar - LIAR! It's called Earth Eater, but it doesn't eat earth, or indeed, THE EARTH. I'm going to have this alleged planet-destroying fish under the trade descriptions act!

Sad fish.

We also got to see the zoo's highly advanced fish tank cleaning equipment in operation.

All in all, then, it was a brilliant day, topped off by a brief stop at Oxford Street where I almost collided with the most terrifying animal of the day.

Going postal

Buying stuff off the internet is great because when it arrives it's a bit like getting a present (especially so if you click the 'gift wrap' option when purchasing from Amazon). Admittedly it's a present from yourself and at the end of the day you are paying for it, but because you don't actually hand over any cash it's all a bit of a case of out of sight, out of mind.

Hurrah!

Unless something goes a bit wrong.

Since buying my new front door I've been trying to save money. As a result, I've just been buying more stuff off the internet and avoiding looking at my bank balance. This is working brilliantly.

In the last few weeks I've been reading the book Youth in Revolt, which is waaaaay better than the movie starring everyone's favourite progeria-poster boy, Michael Cera. I'm enjoying it so much, in fact, that I ordered the other three books (volumes 4-6; the first book contains volumes 1-3 if you give a damn) in the series (I can't remember what they're called - it's all some variation on the words 'young' and 'revolting') from Amazon. I also finally found the perfect bag to lug my iPad around in, so I ordered that too. Unfortunately you can't get that from Amazon, so I had to order it direct from the supplier in the States. The bag was 35 quid plus another testicle-retracting 20-odd pounds for postage.

Still, I needed it, and I wanted it, so I threw caution to the wind and bought it.

This is what life must feel like for Emily Gilmore. If she wasn't, y'know, a FICTIONAL CHARACTER.

Anyway, annoyingly books five and six of Youth in Revolt arrived exceedingly promptly, but about a week or so later there was still no sign of book four, despite the fact that it had apparently been sent. So I emailed Amazon and received a very long, very automated reply basically telling me to shut the hell up and wait another two weeks to see if it turned up in the interim.

(I'm pretty sure they just used to send you a replacement item straight away - didn't they?)

So, although I'm seething about this, on the plus side I'm WELL EXCITED about my iPad bag.

Until I get a letter from Parcel Force telling me that they won't let me have it until I pay customs duty on it. This, the letter informs me, is about a tenner, which isn't too bad, I think. Then I read on and discover that on top of customs, Parcel Force are charging me an outrageous £13 handling fee! £13! That's 13 quid for the privilege of them picking up the box, hoofing it into the back of a van, and delivering it into my by now destitute hands!

Of course, I have no option but to pay it, so I do. By this point my bargain £35 iPad bag has now cost me around £85, but on the plus side it looks awesome, and I'm still refusing to check my bank balance.

And because I've not posted in a couple of weeks, here's a pic with some gratuitous arse.

And yesterday, finally, was the day when the two week waiting period was up and I could hassle Amazon about sending out a replacement book, which I was incredibly relieved about because although I've been rationing myself to just 10 or so pages of Youth in Revolt per day I am nudging perilously close to the end. So I emailed them and almost immediately received a reply that was clearly from an actual human, albeit one with a flare for the dramatic because it said:

"It does indeed appear as if something has gone awry!"

Seriously, do people even still use 'awry?'

Anyway, he's sending out a replacement, and even sending it first class at their expense to make amends, meaning it'll arrive on Thursday. Which is, y'know, great, except for the fact that it's going to the office and I'm off this week.

*sigh*

Massive space vagina

Around this time last year I thought about buying a new front door. Not because I especially wanted to spend an exorbitant amount of money on such a thing, but rather because I experienced a brief moment of BEHAVING LIKE AN ADULT and thought it would be a wise thing to do; existing front door had never been particularly awesome, y'see, with the 5mm gap between the door and the frame being particularly un-awesome in the winter.

However, as often occurs when I have a brief moment of BEHAVING LIKE AN ADULT, my dominant personality traits kicked in and I spent the money on shiny and exciting new toys instead.

Fast forward one year and I'm jauntily walking down my front path one bright and sunny evening when I notice 'hey-ho, have I always been able to see into my porch even when the door is closed?'

The answer used to be NO. At this point, however, it was in fact a resounding YES.

EPIC DOOR FAIL. Don't believe me? This is it from the inside.

Immediately upon seeing this immense crack in space-time the door the part of my brain that BEHAVES LIKE AN ADULT snapped its fingers to get the attention of the dominant part of my brain that had already started thinking about exciting other things, and sternly said "new door." The dominant part of my brain nodded like a special and immediately set about patching up the door with masking tape and wishful thinking, and then colouring in the masking tape with a black marker pen so it wasn't quite as noticeable as it would be if it was just left the colour of normal masking tape. However, as dominant part of brain is wont too, after a minute or so of colouring in the masking tape it got bored and decided to play Angry Birds HD on the iPad, leaving the door covered in a mish-mash of coloured and uncoloured masking tape that, the next day, both parts of my brain agreed was not a satisfactory solution to the problem at hand.

Gap at top of door, and tastefully arranged, albeit uncoloured, masking tape.

And so like a sulky teenager, the dominant part of my brain caved in and a swanky new front door and industrial-strength frame was ordered.

About five weeks after I placed the order a nice lady called me to say everything was ready and they'd like to come and fit it. A day was arranged, and even the dominant part of my brain was quite excited at the prospect of the new door because it would be shiny and do exciting things like open and close without requiring an excessive tug or a forceful shove.

On the Sunday before the day new door was to be fitted I was in an evening yoga class in the midst of one of the upside down postures when I suddenly realised that workmen expect beverages, and while I was covered on the tea front (regular, Earl Grey, excessively stinky Lapsang Souchong) the only coffee I had in the house was some of that Starbucks instant stuff, and as appreciative as I intended to be toward this chap for exchanging shabby old door for shiny new one, there was no way I was going to let him have one/any of those. And so after class I made a special effort to stop in at the only shop I could find that was open where I paid an exorbitant fee for a comically undersized jar of Nescafe.

I arranged to work from home for the duration of the day new door was to be fitted, because quite frankly I had no idea how long it would take to fit a new door and frame so I thought I'd better play it safe. And because I expected there to be loads of loud noises accompanying the door-fitting process, I decided I'd do a cover design for one of the forthcoming issues. You might ask why an editor is doing a cover design, so lets just say that I like to keep my hand in the photoshoppery pool every now and then, and it's easy enough for me to disengage my brain and make something pretty without having to think. Plus it keeps everyone on their toes if I show I can multi-task the shit out of everything.

While hashing out ideas for the cover design and waiting for doorman to arrive I have to keep talking myself out of a growing urge to put my foot through old door just to see how feeble and rotten it actually is. The only reason I don't is that I'm worried the door company will phone and say the fitter is ill or something and can they rearrange for another day, and then I'll be left with a massive hole in the door that all the masking tape in the world won't be able to fix.

So anyway, doorman arrives promptly at 10:30, and I immediately suppress the urge to ask him if he's OK with me putting my foot through the old door because he looks like the sort of person who would frown upon such behaviour and respond with something like "don't be so stupid." I instead ask him if he'd like a cup of tea or COFFEE. He raises an eyebrow and replies "actually I'd love a glass of water please."

"Not coffee?" I ask again.

"No - water will be fine," he says.

I briefly consider telling him that I'm all out of water and that he'll have to make do with coffee, but I just give up and get him a glass of water. I subsequently resolve to see if I can drink the entire tiny jar of Nescafe myself in the same time it takes him to fit a door.

The old door and it's shabby frame are dispensed with in a frighteningly short period of time, and within an hour all the new bits are coming together nicely, and I'm in the midst of some terrifying Nescafe-induced sweats. Regardless of the fact I'm vibrating more than a Harry Potter broomstick at a teenager's slumber party, the cover is coming along just great. I've created a lovely image that shows a familiar spaceship from a well-know sci-fi show flying toward a beautiful custom-built purple nebula with a vertically-arranged glowing centre; I'm really quite proud of the whole thing, and decide to celebrate with my third or fourth cup of coffee.

So there I am standing in the kitchen and I glance back over towards my computer just at the same moment that door chappy, who is standing in the porch, decides to turn around and look over at my computer. For a minute we stand there in silence, both taking in the breathtaking space vista I've lovingly created. And then we both harrumph a bit, blush, and return to our respective duties, having both realised that what I've created looks just like a massive vagina floating in space with a spaceship about to plunge into it.

However much you might argue the point (and believe me, the dominant part of my brain fought tooth and nail with the part of my brain that BEHAVES LIKE AN ADULT), there's no way I can let a massive space vagina be published, so I scurry back over to my desk, plonk myself down, and begin tickling (oi, careful - that's a design term) the nebula to make it look slightly more, well, nebulous. Regardless of my efforts, by this point in time the dominant part of my brain has dubbed it the Lohan Nebula and is sniggering away in my subconscious like a naughty schoolboy.

New door in place but without the centre panels. My first thought upon seeing it like this was "ooo - forcefield door!"

About an hour later the doorman comes up to me, looks at the somewhat less vaginary image on my screen in a slightly disappointed fashion, and says he's done and would I like him to show me how it works. Obviously by now I'm on about my fifth or sixth cup of coffee and am literally a live-action version of Tweek from South Park. Also, being somewhat loath to leave a workman downstairs in my house while I pop upstairs, I'm desperately in need of the toilet. I nevertheless follow him outside.

So it turns out new doors are considerably more complicated than old doors, and while he's lifting the handle up and turning the key in a variety of complex and exciting ways, I'm being distracted by a neighbour's Hitler cat who is giving me evils from underneath a car, and by the fact that I'm hopping around and squeezing my thighs together in an attempt to not wet myself. I think, though I'm not too sure, that doorman notices I'm not exactly focusing my full attention on his little show and tell display, and toward the end I actually think he's going to tell me to go into my house and offer to lock the door from the outside and pass the key through the letterbox to me just to be on the safe side.

"Did you get all that," he eventually says. I nod. He gets in his van and drives off, and I'm left standing on the lawn thinking 'what?'

New door completed. While new door is considerably more awesome than old door, I do miss being able to use the gigantic cracks in the old one as rudimentary spy holes.

Anyway, I eventually go back inside, manage to lock the door (or at the very least stop it from opening) and subsequently stick my finger in the still-wet mastic around the frame before scampering upstairs to empty approximately two litres of liquid from my painfully-strained bladder. My next action, and the only defence I can offer is that my caffeine-frazzled brain somehow wanted to memorialise my morning's work, was to hop onto Twitter and start furiously tweeting the exciting new trending topic hashtag #massivespacevagina.

Sadly, and somewhat inexplicably I think you'll agree, it has failed to catch on as well as #justinbieber.

30 days of yoga: Day 30 - Sparky's finest hour!

Let's not beat around the bush, eh? My 30 days of yoga challenge: DONE!

Writing this now, it's been exactly two hours since class finished, and I'm in some sort of weird state of ecstasy. My 30th class couldn't have gone any better - I genuinely feel like I did every posture to the best of my ability; you could say I was in the zone, which after having done yoga every day for the last month came as something of a pleasant surprise. I think I was a bit fired up in anticipation for tonight's class anyway; I didn't want to stumble at the finish line and feel like I'd let down everyone who has given me support and encouragement over the last 30 days.

What made the evening particularly memorable, though, was the fact that one of the teachers told the lady taking tonight's class that I'd reached the end of my 30 day challenge, and just before the final breathing exercise she asked the entire class to join her in congratulating me on my achievement - and I got a massive round of applause. I was genuinely moved by this. Some of the postures can bring up weird emotions, and I was sitting there desperately thinking "DON'T CRY!"

I'd actually thought about carrying on to do 31 or even 32 classes in a row, but after such a wonderful end to the challenge I've decided to take a couple of days off. I don't think I've got anything left to prove anyway. Doing 30 days of yoga has been such a good exercise; I've improved my postures, I feel fitter and healthier, and I've proved to myself that I can do anything I set my mind to. If you'd told me a couple of months back that I was going to take on this challenge I would've laughed in your face; two classes a week - three at most - was my limit. Once a day for an entire month?

After class I stopped to talk to the teacher for a few minutes, and she told me that I'll notice the true benefits of the challenge in the days and weeks to come. She said that taking one or two days off to let my body adjust to what it's done is a good idea, and I'll probably find that I have a really great class when I next go back. I think that will probably be Thursday, and to be honest, while I am looking forward to having a couple of free evenings for the first time in what seems like forever, I'm also looking forward to getting back in that studio. It's going to be really weird driving past it tomorrow and not stopping off. I'm really going to miss it - even though it will only be three days till I'll be sweating my tits off in there again.

What's really weird is that as I was driving home I passed the spot where I had the car accident last year, and it occurred to me that if it hadn't been for that terrible day I'd never have gone to Bikram yoga. Funny how something so positive and life-changing came out of something so negative, eh?

30 days of yoga: Day 29 - the foot thing

As I've mentioned before, I generally appreciate a little quiet time/nap before my yoga class begins. But it's not all sweet dreams and towel snuggles, I'll have you know; I generally like to sit upright about five minutes before the teacher comes into the studio just so I'm not going straight from a horizontal position to a standing position and end up toppling over from an epic head rush.

Now, obviously there's not really much to do in a yoga studio when you're not doing yoga, so once I've finished checking my bad self out in the mirror, glanced out the window to see what's going on in the world, and checked out the competition, I've found myself doing this sort of weird thing with my feet.

The only way I can describe it is being a bit like a Predator mouth.

Here, look:

It keeps me entertained like you wouldn't believe, and it's become something of a habit now. I'm sure the people sitting on either side of me must think I'm a mentalist. Either that or they're amazed at the dexterity of my toes. I can pick stuff up with them, don't you know. They're like little monkey feet.

Anyway, as exciting as my feet are, did you notice that today is day 29? Just one more to go…

30 days of yoga: Day 28 - get naked

When I first started doing Bikram yoga last June the first thing I did when I stumbled out of the studio into the bright sunshine and blessed cool air was to go and get something to drink, because although you have a bottle of water with you during class, believe me, after class it's never enough. On that first day I headed straight for Starbucks (Chiswick handily offers three) where I bought a coffee.

Now, while my love of coffee is well documented, it doesn't really hit the spot after 90 minutes of stretching, balancing, sweating, and wondering what the hell you've done spending money to be tortured in such a way. So, after my second class, I started buying this:

This is a Naked Berry Tasty smoothie. It's really fruity, exceedingly refreshing, and must count for at least a couple of my five a day (BONUS). The knowledge that I'm mere minutes away from one of these fruity little bastards is what gets me through to the end of class.

I used to buy these from Starbucks, but a few months back they stopped selling them which is annoying but fine because Waitrose sell them so it just means I have to wander a little further down the Chiswick High Road in my sweaty, somewhat dazed post-yoga state. And anyway, Waitrose is good because I can pick some nice food up in there too.

On the downside, while I thought I was forming a nice bond with all the lovely members of staff in Waitrose, apparently I'm somewhat mistaken. And quite frankly I've only got myself to blame, because I realised that when I walk in there, not five minutes after scampering out of the studio, I'm still sweating a fair bit. And when your shirt is plastered to you, the light denim jeans you're wearing are slightly moist on the inner thighs, and you look like you should be called Crazy Man Mentalist Hair, it's quite understandable that the staff of this upper class supermarket would think that you're a homeless, albeit somewhat buff, special who quite frankly looks more like the sort of person who would normally be found shopping in Tesco.

30 days of yoga: Day 27 - Hulk hands

One of the biggest changes I've noticed in my body during the 30 day challenge has been my arms. I've got more definition in my shoulders, a bit more of a bulgy bicep (on both arms, mind; one would just be weird), and some protruding veins.

I'm curiously fascinated by the whole veins thing, although admittedly in a 'poke it and squeal a bit' way because it looks a bit like a worm stuck under the skin. They're a bit more visible in my forearms, and on the biceps just above the elbow, which is exciting; there's also one on my left arm that runs slightly horizontal and looks a bit like a smiley face. I tried taking a picture immediately after coming out of class but they don't really show that well (thanks iPhone!) and I just ended up looking like a bit of a tit taking a photo of his arm in Chiswick.

Apparently girls find veiny arms sexy because it shows you're fit and take care of yourself. That's all very well, but I just have to make sure I don't go too far with it and end up looking like Sylvester Stallone or - *shudder* - Madonna, who quite frankly looks like she's had the arms of a 110 year-old corpse transplanted onto her body.

30 days of yoga: Day 26 - AWESOME

This is going to be a short one because a) nobody likes a show-off, and b) I've only just got in.

Basically, then: favourite teacher plus plenty of between-posture witty banter, compliments on my yoga (and physique!), in-class laughter, and properly NAILING all 26 postures (on my 26th day? SYNERGY!) equal quite possibly the best class so far of this challenge.

Add to that some post-class chatting with other members of the class - which I haven't really done before because I'm antisocial I tend to just get changed and go - followed by a keep drink with a fellow yogi who first introduced me to the joys of back-chatting to the teacher in class.

It's nights like this that remind why I enjoy this yoga so much.

30 days of yoga: Day 25 - unclean, UNCLEEEEEEAN!

About a week into my 30 day challenge I went to see Inception with Best Mate Jo. Upon picking her up I asked, like a polite gentleman, how she was. Her reply, or rather what I could make out through the snot and croaking throat, horrified me. I spent the next 10 minutes smooshed up against my driver's side window, and briefly wondered whether I could get away with making her sit elsewhere in the cinema to avoid the risk of contamination.

If you were wondering, I loved the movie, though.

The following day was spent sitting around the house being incredibly paranoid and wondering if I was feeling a tad feverish or could detect the early stages of a sore throat. Having invested a considerable amount of time in the challenge, and £130 to cover my month long unlimited pass, I was understandably nervous. Fortunately, nothing transpired as a result of an evening spent with the unclean.

Fast forward to today, day 25 of my epic challenge. With the finish line in sight I'm feeling pretty chipper … until two colleagues came in sounding like death warmed up and insisted on getting within contamination range while making a cup of tea. If I'd had any holy water on me I would've showered them in it and started chanting random things in Klingon Latin. Cue the return of my paranoia and, disturbingly, a headache.

This is it, I thought, I'm stumbling on the final straight. I nevertheless went to class, fearing - although the idea was repulsive to me - that I might have to leave if I began to feel too rough. But then a miraculous thing happened! The combination of the extreme heat and excessive sweating made my headache disappear - and I went on to ace the class.

So I've now got five days left in which to evade the diseased, after which time I'll happily submit to a lurgy and bed rest. Well, maybe not 'happily,' but the idea of lolling about in bed for a few days actually is quite appealing.

30 days of yoga: Day 24 - modesty is the best policy

It occurred to me earlier that this is the final Tuesday of my 30 day challenge. Just typing that out feels a bit weird; yoga's totally dominated my life for the last three and a bit weeks, and the idea of this challenge nearing its epic conclusion brings with it some mixed feelings. This time next week I could be sitting at home with my feet up watching the telly amid a pile of junk food rather than being half naked, dripping with sweat and wondering if I'll pass out in camel pose.

Still, the fat lady hasn't sung so it's not over yet!

After a few days of somewhat mixed results, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I nailed tonight's class good and proper. I'd kind of come to the conclusion that I'd be having fair-to-middling classes for the rest of the challenge (although to be honest, an OK-ish class for me now is about on par with a damn fine class from around three months ago), so I was somewhat taken aback by how easy all the postures came to me and how awesome I felt. To be honest, if this had been a weekend class and I'd had more time I would've seriously considered going for a double.

Although I'll never be too certain why tonight's class was awesome and Sunday night's left me feeling like I'd been raped by a bear, one thing does spring to mind: one of the lovely ladies on reception asked me how the challenge was going, and I replied "oh, y'know, feeling it a bit now!"

Clearly, then, my plan from here on in should be to feign as much modesty as I can possibly muster in an attempt to fool my body into jive pushing it, pushing it real good.

So with that in mind, er, I expect tomorrow's class will be just *awful*.

30 days of yoga: Day 23 - bitch slap!

Yoga gets very busy at peak times. I think the capacity of the studio is around 60 people, and when it's full you're actually quite close to the people on either side; there's something like a 10 centimetre gap between mats.

Because some of the postures - eagle pose in particular - involve some rather vigorous arm swinging, the teachers always recommend that we, the practitioners, stagger ourselves. Helpfully, the mats are themselves staggered in the studio, so if your mat is forward, you step forward; if it's back, you step back. Simple really. Well, you'd think so. I always pick a mat that's nudged forward, but on several occasions I've found the person next to me standing right alongside, and they often frown at me disapprovingly like I'm the one that's standing in the wrong place.

Fortunately I sweat rather a lot during class, so if a disapproving glare doesn't do the trick I just splash them with a healthy amount of my salty man juice.

*ahem*

Anyway, tonight's class was going rather swimmingly for me, with the people on either side generally behaving themselves. I think my biggest complaint up until around the halfway point was that the lady to my left kept tickling the back of my right knee with her ponytail during standing separate leg stretching pose. I don't think it was intentional.

However, as we reached the floor series, lady made the heinous error of putting her water bottle at the base of my mat. Outrageous - it's well documented that I detest such behaviour! Despite the no-talking-during-class-rule, I was seriously thinking about having a word. But then something more awesome than I could ever have thought possible happened: the woman next to her slapped her right in the face while swinging her arms up to go into half tortoise!

And it wasn't a half-hearted slap either - it was a full-on, skin on skin, loud cracking noise slap. I Immediately thought about having a go as well - clearly her defenses were down because she recoiled away from her back-handing attacker toward me a little, but in an instant my window of opportunity was gone; the slapper was apologising profusely to the slappee as if the whole thing had been a horrible mistake (yeah right!). Much to my chagrin they didn't even get into a sweaty cat fight.

Suffice to say, though, that as I rolled forward and down onto Captain Kirk's face in an awesome half tortoise, I had a massive grin on my face…

30 days of yoga: Day 22 - THERE. ARE. FOUR. LIGHTS!

Bikram yoga, as I've warbled on about plenty of times, is 90 minutes of yoga done in a hot room. Not a warm room, a HOT room. It gets up to about 40 degrees C (that's 105 degrees F if you're old school, or just plain old). Most of the heat is generated by a large and powerful heating machine that is secreted somewhere in the ceiling, but in addition to this hellish device, the teachers also flick on the lights in the studio.

You wouldn't think that lighting would really do much to make you sweat, but as a matter of fact it does. At the halfway point in the class when you lie on the floor for a two minute rest period they turn the lights off so you don't get dazzled by them as you stare up at the ceiling, and you do actually feel a little bit cooler. It might be my mind playing tricks on me, but then again I flicked my kitchen lights on earlier - which are the same kind of halogen ones as are in the studio - and I started sweating like a bitch in heat so I genuinely think there's something in it.

The gist of this is, then, that I now rather hate halogen lights.

Anyway, I was in class this evening, lying on my back during a rest period between postures and for some reason my eyes were drawn to the lights. And it was at that point that for the first time I counted how many were on, and as my inner Picard began to surface, I had to resist shouting out:

30 days of yoga: Day 21 - key to the door

Day 21 of my 30 day challenge and I thought it would be hilarious to keep telling everyone that today was my 21st in the hope that they'd think it was my birthday, which would then result in everyone telling me how young and adorable I appear before they scampered off to buy me presents.

I did not expect, nor want, laughter. People can be bastards. What is that whole 'key in the door' thing about, anyway? It drove me nutty on my actual 21st.

So anyway, I'm down to single digits now. Hurrah!

I dreamt about yoga last night. In my dream I'd finished my 30 day challenge, and as a result gained the power of flight. After experimenting with tentative hovering around the house, I set off on a tour of all my familiar West London haunts in order to bid farewell to my nearest and dearest before departing for a new life on the moon.

I was expecting excessive pooing as a result of all this yoga, not something akin to a bad acid trip.

30 days of yoga: Day 20 - mariachi el yoga

The one thing that bugs me about yoga - besides the excessive sweating and people who invade my area - actually happens before class when I'm trying to enjoy my nap time relaxation period. Recently I've become more and more aware of people who think that the period prior to the beginning of class is actually the perfect time to catch up on what happened in last night's Eastenders or share some scurrilous office gossip, completely ignorant of the fact that the vast majority of people in the room are on the backs with their eyes closed, possibly even snoring gently, and certainly not caring about who Kate from accounts is boffing in the stationary cupboard.

And that's why today I was really quite happy to see that the lovely people at the studio had put out signs telling everyone to shut the f**k up, but obviously in a more polite yoga stylee. While I was chilling out I was actually hoping that someone would start nattering, at which point I had decided I would sit bolt upright, adopt my best angry face, and point furiously at the new signs. Sadly everyone behaved themselves.

What the signs had no power over, however, was the fact that the tapas bar below the studio decided that Friday night would be the perfect time to employ a mariachi band to serenade their patrons. And let me tell you, it's not easy to keep a straight face when you're upside down in standing separate leg head to knee pose and someone strikes up some jaunty latin beats.

Not only that, but no matter how pooped you are it really is quite difficult to follow the teacher's instructions and keep completely still after coming out of posture when every fibre of your being is shouting "RUUUUUUUUUMBA!"

30 days of yoga: Day 19 - supply teacher

If there's one thing I like in my yoga practise it's consistency, which is why I approached tonight's class with a bit of trepidation. Thursdays nights, y'see, are usually taken by my favourite teacher, and in the past when she's not been there I've often skipped that evening's class. This week she's on holiday, but as I'm balls deep in the midst of my 30 day challenge, I don't really have the option of taking a day off.

Well, actually I do, but I don't want to.

Anyway, whenever I have a teacher I've never met before I always slip into that old school mentality that you'd get whenever your teacher was ill and your GCSE maths class was being covered by a supply teacher. Your regular teacher was a known quantity, and it's the same with yoga teachers; Thursday night lady knows what I'm good at, she knows my limitations; I can get away with a bit of back-chat, and she doesn't say anything when I sit at the front of class picking blue fluff out of my belly button.

New teachers aren't like that. You have to impress them, prove to them that you are a good boy and you're definitely putting 100 percent effort in. And no, that wasn't you who farted and made all the other children roll around on their mats giggling like specials.

As it was, though, I had nothing to worry about; temporary teacher was lovely, and the class passed without incident. Although to be honest I am looking forward to my regular teacher's return next week; Thursday evening just wasn't the same without her broadcasting a sarcastic remark to the class about me swan-diving down and kissing Batman.

-----

In other news, I experienced a rather awe-inspiring instance of the detoxing effect of all this yoga last night. Without going into too much detail, let me just say the words 'explosive decompression' and we'll leave it at that.

On the plus side, I do feel about half a stone lighter.

30 days of yoga: Day 18 - Temptation

Eighteen days in and this was the first day where I was tempted to play hooky from my 30 day challenge (I'm officially allowed six rest days, but I've actually yet to take one). Not because I didn't want to go to yoga, mind, but because a band I'm currently a smidgeon obsessed with are playing in town tonight.

That band is OK Go. I've been a bit of a fan of theirs for a few years now - way before the treadmill video before anyone tries to accuse me of jumping on any bandwagons - and a few weeks back I ordered a USB drive off their website that contained recordings of a live electric gig, a live acoustic gig, and their new album. Since it arrived at the beginning of last week I've not actually listened to any other music while rocking out with my iPhone.

Upon hearing that they were in London, then, I was sorely tempted to be naughty and sneak off to see them. But, as it turns out, I'm a dedicated yogi; I went to class, and I was pretty damn awesome. And anyway, I think I've found my yoga theme tune - I had this playing in my head all throughout class:

30 days of yoga: Day 17 - flirtrageous

Going into this 30 day challenge I expected a number of things to happen. These included differences in my body shape and muscle definition, lots of clothes needing to be washed, and getting very sweaty.

What I did not expect was for the yoga to make me more attractive to women.

WHAT?!

OK, I might be exaggerating a bit, but no word of a lie after class this evening I popped into Sainsburys to pick up some food and something to quench my thirst (or rehydrate if I'm being scientific), and after paying I decide to stand in the foyer while I sexily knock back my Lucozade isotonic drink. While I'm standing there, patches of sweat beginning to show through on my t-shirt and inner thighs (nothing turns ladies on more than moist trousers) I get the impression I'm being watched.

Turns out I'm right.

A lovely young lady is looking at me a bit funny (funny as in like she's trying to make sure I am who she thinks I am, rather than funny with clown makeup and eyes that boing-boing out on springs). And then she says:

"Did I hear you say in the studio that you've done 18 straight days of yoga?"

"Oh, it's 17," I reply, shrugging my shoulders as if it's no biggie.

"Wow, that's amazing - I can barely manage two." She says this while turning her face down a little and tossing her hair back, actions that TV shows and movies have taught me are universal signs of instant attraction. I then proceed to impart some of my newfound yoga wisdom on her, scattered throughout with pseudo-macho phrases such as "it's nothing really" and "you just get into a natural rhythm" (hubba-hubba).

Anyway, so we chat for a couple more seconds and then she heads off to do some shopping of her own, but not before turning to me one last time to say "let me know how you get on, won't you?"

If this was an eighties movie that moment totally would've been in slow-mo with fans whipping her hair around her while she blew me a kiss.

30 days of yoga: Day 16 - level up!

Possibly as a result of being a rather chubby youngster with child-sized man boobs who excelled academically but failed epically at sports, I now find myself, as an adult (physically if not mentally), seeking affirmation of my sporting prowess whenever and wherever possible.

Of course, when I'm running I have my Nike+ kit to tell me how good (or not) I'm doing. Alas, Nike+ does not work with yoga, so I either have to go with my gut reaction as to how I did, or badger the teacher after class until they give me a verbal pat on the back and send me on my way.

Tonight, though, I didn't have to fall back on either option.

I went into class this evening resolved to taking it easy somewhat. Yesterday in particular was a bit of a rubbish session for me, so I decided to take it down a notch in this class - effectively to allow my mind and body to regroup, although you also wouldn't be wrong in saying I wouldn't be running on all cylinders and would just be going through the motions.

As a result I had what I thought was a decent if unremarkable class.

As I walked out of the studio, however, the teacher looked at me and said "there was a bit of a competition between a few of the guys in the front row there - and I think you came out on top."

I stopped and looked around like a bit of a special before pointing at myself and mouthing "me?"

"Yes," she said.

"B-but I was taking it easy tonight - I hit the wall!"

"I don't think you did - you were doing very well in there tonight."

I continued to stand there with a bit of a dumbfounded look on my face, at which point she said:

"You're Tim, aren't you? I could tell by the Star Trek towel."

Ah yes, the legendary Star Trek towel - evidently the source of all my powers.

30 days of yoga: Day 15 - Halfway

WHOA! I'm halfway theeeeeere, whoa liv-

Let us never speak of me quoting Bon Jovi lyrics again. We shall assume I'm delirious from too much yoga.

30 days of yoga: Day 14 - wall

I knew it was coming, but that doesn't make it any less annoying: I think I've hit THE WALL (and I don't mean one that leaves me with bloody knuckles and tears in my eyes).

Some of the teachers and staff at yoga warned me that I might reach a point where I feel I can't quite go any further, and while I don't think I've actually reached THAT point - I'm still enjoying it and I'm still doing everything quite capably (I think) - I don't feel like my practise has actually been advancing over the last few days. Basically that means I feel like I'm going through the motions a bit.

On the plus side, bad yoga at the moment is actually still a bit like decent yoga from a few months ago. And to be honest the situation's not helped too much by Friday's class being in the evening and Saturday's being first thing in the morning with only about 13 hours between them. Still, I do get a nice long rest between Saturday's morning class and Sunday's evening class, so hopefully my powers will be restored by this time tomorrow…

30 days of yoga: Day 13 - snigger

Some bullet points for you:

• Genuinely almost fell into a proper deep asleep before class started. At one point I might've entered a micro-sleep; I certainly jolted awake somewhat comically about 10 minutes before we kicked off.

• Someone farted halfway through. This made me laugh. Lucky I wasn't in posture at that point.

• I hit a little bit of a wall and struggled a smidgeon halfway through.

• And I'm doing it all over again at 9:00 tomorrow morning.

That's it for now; I've got the new Scott Pilgrim book and I intend to spend some special* time with it tonight.

*Not that sort of 'special.'

30 days of yoga: Day 12 - blow me

Let's get one thing straight: I am awesome at toe stands. So awesome, in fact, that my teacher tonight asked if I practised them while sitting in front of the telly because I did it so naturally. I don't, but maybe I should - not because I need to, just because I can. I am rock-solid when balanced on one foot, my bum raised above my heel (NOT resting on it).

What I'm not so good at these days is using my patented 'I WANT' expression to get the teacher to open the window. This expression has served me well throughout my life - from getting Sparky Ma to buy me new toys when I was a kid (not now, obviously; I can afford my own these days), to wangling free coffee; it's the same sort of expression that Princess Diana used in that interview with Martin Bashir, though with less mascara. It used to work on the yoga teachers when I was new and inexperienced and obviously close to overheating, but now they just look at me like I'm making a fuss.

I tried desperately to get that look to work tonight, but to no avail. I did actually do everything in class, but I really just wanted a blast of cool air. I would've turned to the person next to me and asked them to blow on me, but apparently the one thing people hate more than someone making a fuss these days is Mel Gibson.

30 days of yoga: Day 11 - poop

Don't go thinking I went into this 30 day yoga challenge blind; I did my planning, and I did my research.

The planning entailed making sure I had a comprehensive idea of how many pairs of kit I'd need, and exactly when they would need to be washed.

The research involved Googling other people's experiences of doing the 30 day challenge, and reading up on how it effected them. The results were overwhelmingly positive as you might guess, because otherwise it's highly unlikely I would've bothered with the challenge and this post would instead be about something inane like stroking a kitten or buying a solid chocolate KitKat (love those - as I kid I convinced myself they were so rare that they could imbue me with magical powers).

There was, however, one comment on a message board that did ring some alarm bells. I can't for the life of me find it know, so trust me when I say the gist of it was:

"Wow, I find Bikram yoga has so many positive benefits. I can just feel the toxins flooding out of my body - I even have to go to the toilet (no. 2) around four or five times a day!"

Now, I love a good poo as much as the next person, but four or five times a DAY?! I'm a busy man - I don't have time to keep popping off to the toilet because my body's running at peak effieciency! Four or five times a day? That can't be good, can it? Surely by about the third or fourth time you'd be straining your spleen and colon out? I've had diarrhea less potent than that.

Fortunately, my worries have fallen by the wayside. Eleven days in and I genuinely don't feel the need to recreate the end fight sequence from Aliens where Ripley flushes the Queen out of an airlock over the toilet bowl on an hourly basis. Although, in one class last week, the teacher did use the word 'hemorrhoids' and the phrases 'constipation-relief' and 'follow-through' in quick succession, so maybe there's something in it after all?

30 days of yoga: Day 10 - Benjamin Button

As I said yesterday, there are some aspects of yoga - particularly the whole zen part - that I don't quite get. But then there are other aspects I totally get - aspects that have been far more noticeable as I continue my way through my 30 day challenge.

One thing I knew would happen was a change in my body shape - shoulders, biceps, that sort of thing, because I know from past experience when I've gone three or four times a week for a couple of weeks that it has a noticeable effect on those areas.

What I was not expecting was to start growing younger. But that, apparently, is what is happening.

The first inkling I had was when I noticed that the rather deep line on my forehead from where I raise my eyebrows incredulously at people rather too often had softened somewhat, and gotten a little bit shorter. Then I noticed that the laughter lines around my eyes had decreased in size, and the dark rings under my eyes had disappeared altogether. My jaw line is more defined, and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to produce mock double-chins. I've begun to look like that bit of dodgy CGI they used in X-Men United to make Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen look younger.

And then today I walked into the office only to hear the phrase "holy shit, have you gotten taller?!" hurled at me by Scanner. Apparently I have.

So, while I'd previously scoffed at anyone telling me that yoga could make me look younger rather than just feel younger, I now can't deny the evidence - because it's staring right back at me every time I look in the mirror.

And all this after just 10 days. At this rate I'll be back in nappies by the time I hit that final class.

30 days of yoga: Day 9 - Urge to punch

The one thing I've never *quite* got with yoga is the slightly zen-like feeling it's supposed to induce. I always leave class on some sort of endorphin high, and then I walk into Sainsbury's, some scrummy-mummy wheels her trolley into me, and quite frankly I just want to punch someone.

Today was the first time I've wanted to actually do it in class, though.

Before class had even started I began to suspect that the rabble might be in; there was a bunch of people who were nattering away really loudly, which you're not really supposed to do in the studio and it seriously put me off my nap time a bit. In the end a young lady got up and asked them to keep it down a bit. Props to her.

But then when class started…

Basically I had a mannish-looking woman on my left who thought it was OK to dump her towel on my mat when she didn't need it, and a guy on my right who thought it was OK to put his water bottle on my towel when he'd taken a drink. It wasn't, and I let him know as such by relaxing fully backwards in fixed firm pose - which I can't usually do, but somehow gained the ability today, possibly because I was so incensed - and knocking his water over.

Good times, I think you'll agree.

He did actually apologise, but then at the end of class while relaxing in savasana I felt something against my leg. Turns out he'd decided to spread himself out a bit and encroach on my Batman towel. Outrageous. In disgust I got up and pulled it out from under him. I hope he got carpet burns on his hands as a result - it's not what you'd call a fluffy towel, and cheap, sweaty, fast-moving towelling can be particularly unforgiving on soft skin.

30 days of yoga: Day 8 - the story so far…

It was exactly one week ago today that I began my 30 day yoga challenge, so I thought I'd look back and see how I've been coping.

The answer? Very well, thank you for asking.

I originally thought I'd struggle to go every day, and even if I did manage to actually get there I thought I'd certainly struggle with the class itself. Turns out the regime of actually having to be at the studio at a certain time each day (particularly during the week) has been something of a blessing in disguise; I'm actually getting up on time because I know I have to be at work by a certain time so that I can leave at a certain time to be at the studio at … well, you get the idea.

And far from struggling more with each passing day I'm finding that it's actually getting easier. The 90 minutes often feel like they zip by in a flash (although I do still hate balancing stick pose with a passion) and before I know it I'm queuing in Waitrose to buy a refreshing fruity drink.

As for other benefits … well, my shoulders have gotten noticeably bigger, my thighs and calves more defined, and I've dropped down a hole on my belt (which is both awesome and a little worrying because I'm on the last hole now). All that in just one week.

Lord knows what will happen in the three weeks still remaining.

30 days of yoga: Day 7 - a mighty wind

Having done Bikram yoga for well over a year now I think I can say with some certainty that I pretty much know what I'm buying into every time I step in that room. While my yogic powers (is yogic even a word?) may fluctuate from day to day (although they've been consistently awesome this last week) I know for sure that the room is going to be hot.

Well, except for that time toward the end of last year when the heating broke.

Anyway, so yes, it gets very hot. Fortunately, the teachers are well aware of our plight as students, mainly because they're also in the heated room with us so they're sort of going through the same thing, and they take measures to make sure we don't a) collapse, or b) die. These measures basically involve opening a window or a door, or a combination thereof.

Of course, they don't do this too frequently because then all the hot air would just float away and you'd just be in a normal room, which kind of defeats the object. And by 'kind of' I mean 'completely.'

As a general rule of thumb, then, I go on the expectation that we'll sizzle for the standing series of postures, then get a window treat around the midway point, thereafter followed by an occasional treat every now and then until the 90 minutes is up.

Believe me, a window being opened has never been so exciting. If you're flagging a bit, it's basically like all your Christmases have come at once. And the studio where I practice really does get a nice through-flow of air if both the windows and the door are opened. You'd never believe how rejuvenating a blast of cool air could be.

Not everyone likes a nice breeze, though, so more often than not they don't stay open very long. As a result, I have come to the conclusion that I have two means at my disposal to keep cool if the teacher's being particularly stingy. The first is simply to tip water over my head, which is both quick, easy, and effective; the second, which involves an attempt at bribing my teachers before class, has yet to prove successful - although I did buy some additional open-window time once with an angrily-raised eyebrow.

30 days of yoga: Day 6 - nap time

I've just done my sixth day of yoga and I'm now in totally uncharted territory. I think the most I've ever done in a row before is … what - three? And what's slightly miraculous is the fact that I don't actually feel like I need a break. In fact, I feel energised - and not just physically.

Because I always get there early - primarily to nab my spot of choice in the studio - I actually end up with about half an hour to kill before we kick off our 90 minutes of sweaty madness. And because you're not really supposed to take anything in with you I can't use the time to play Angry Birds on my iPhone or leave witty comments on your Facebook pages.

So instead I go to sleep.

OK, I don't *properly* go to sleep, but I do doze rather impressively; I'm still conscious of everything going on around me, but my eyes are shut, I'm totally chilled out, and quite frankly it's entirely possible that one day I will drift off and then there'll be an awkward moment where everyone else will have to wait while the teacher tries to wake me up (which, let me tell you, will be nigh-on impossible).

But until that time I do love my pre-class doze; it's one of the few times I genuinely have where I've got nothing to do but lie back and relax without anything going on to district me.

Yes, Angry Birds, I'm looking at you.

30 days of yoga: Day 5 - naughty cows

I was particularly looking forward to today's yoga because Thursday night class is with one of my favourite teachers, a really funny lady who always keeps things lighthearted so you end up smiling and doing more than you think you're capable of. And she just happens to have been pretty instrumental in making me take on this 30 day challenge in the first place.

"I'm doing it!" I said excitedly and a little bit like a mentalist when I arrived. "The 30 days, I mean - I'm doing the 30 day challenge!" (I thought it best that I should clarify exactly what it was I was 'doing')

"Brilliant," she replied, beaming at me a bit like a proud mum even after their simpleton child has staggered in last in a primary school egg and spoon race. "How do you feel?"

"Really good, actually," I said. "All my classes since Monday have been amazing."

"Great, but don't be disappointed if you do find that you have a bad class at some point. You can hit a wall where your body just tells you to chill out."

"Yeah, I'm kind of prepared for that, and I'm surprised it's not happened already to be honest. It's been great so far though - I wake up in the morning and think 'yay, yoga in 10 hours!'"

That's when she looked me straight in the eye and said "well, first of all you really need to get a life…"

-----

So class went well AGAIN (I expect you all want me to have that bad class now just so I stop sounding so smug, don't you?), and as usual quality teacher lady kept it all fun and lighthearted, which helped bring the best out of us. Probably the peak of hilarity came when she was explaining how to do a Bikram sit-up and actually quoted the man himself:

"An empty barn is better than a barn full of naughty cows."

I have no idea what that actually means or how it was related to achieving the perfect sit-up, but it was very funny.

-----

Just after class while I was chilling out max and relaxing with my eyes closed on my Batman towel I felt something nudge my arm. I opened my peepers to see a chap I've occasionally chatted to standing over me.

"How *do* you do those toe-stands?" he said.

"Um, I dunno," I replied. "I just, y'know, do them…"

He looked at me with mock anger, harumphed, and stormed off, pausing only briefly to turn round and shout "I HATE YOU AND YOUR BLOODY TOWELS!"

Did I mention I'm loving yoga at the moment?

30 days of yoga: Day 4 - sweaty betty

Sorry to sound like a broken record, but day four: nailed it AGAIN.

Now, the thing with Bikram yoga is that because you're in a hot room you sweat. A lot. It's a bit like doing yoga under a running shower, except the water stings when you're doubled over with your forehead pressed against your knee and everything runs down your face into your eyes. Seriously, sometimes I've come out of posture and half expected someone to give me a tissue because I look like I'm blinking back floods of tears.

Anyway, so sweating in class is a given. But what I've found since I started Bikram yoga is that when it's warm my body's instant reaction now is just to open the floodgates and SWEAT. It's warm in the office? SWEAT. Wander into a warm shop? SWEAT. How do I like my tea? SWEET. At one point I was actually a little bit confused about why I was sweating so much, but then a few weeks back one of my yoga teachers - maybe picking up on my sweaty psychic vibes - mentioned in passing that it's a side effect of spending so much time in the hot room. Sweating is, after all, your body's natural way of trying to cool down.

So if you see me wandering around the streets looking like I've just done several lengths of a swimming pool fully clothed, just remember that while I may look a damp mess, my yoga-honed physique is actually running at peak efficiency.

At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

30 days of yoga: Day 3 - parachute pants

Three classes down - heck, that's 10 percent of my challenge nailed, if my incredibly poor maths skills don't betray me once again.

So, another day, another new pair of shorts to break in. Today's were some Puma running shorts which weren't quite as light as yesterday's wearable-air Nikes, but still did the job more than adequately. Somewhat bizarrely, though, they're even more sweat resistant than the Nikes, to the point that I began to wonder at one point if they'd been coated in the same stuff that makes water run off ducks' backs; my sweat was just flowing off them, a bit like I was in the midst of peeing myself rather energetically.

On top of that, if I sat down on my heels rather too vigorously in the upright postures of the floor series they inflated slightly at the front, basically so … well, look, I'm enjoying my yoga challenge, but not THAT much, if you catch my drift.

As a result there was rather a lot of smoothing down done throughout class. Still, they were cheap and they cover my gentlemanly bits well enough, so I shan't complain too much.

Roll on day four.

30 days of yoga: Day 2 - new kit

Well, that went well; in fact, I think you could say I nailed it.

*flexes muscles, feels awesome*

As part of my 30 days of yoga I obviously had to go and buy a load of new kit because quite frankly there was no way I'd be able to see it through with just the two pairs of shorts I've been using so far. So, the other week I bought a few new pairs of shorts, and today I wore one of these new pairs for the first time.

They're actually running shorts, and as a result they're very light and breezy. Don't get excited, they're not transparent or anything, but it does sort of feel like you're not really wearing anything, which made me do a double take at one point. It's the closest I expect I'll come to naked yoga, which is probably for the best. Anyway, they were very nice, although not very absorbent when you're trying to wipe sweat off your hands. Still, the pros more than outweigh the cons.

Also nice is the new towel I bought from Tesco for the bargain price of £3. While it doesn't have an awesome picture of Batman on it, it more than makes up for it by being really fluffy, which was very nice when we got to the floor series. I almost wrapped myself in it, despite the fact that by about halfway through the class it had pretty much doubled in weight after absorbing a considerable amount of my manly sweat.

Anyway, two down, 28 to go.

30 days of yoga: Day 1

Well that went … OK. There were only about 20 of us in the class, and admittedly I did drop to the mat and sat out the second set of two different postures, but I definitely perked up a bit when we did the floor series, which is bizarre because that's the bit where I usually collapse the most (if I'm going to collapse at all, that is).

Essentially, then, while that was a very long first sentence indeed, what I'm trying to say is that the first class of my 30 day challenge was completed without too much trouble, and set the bar reasonably low for all the classes that will follow. Definitely no repeat of last September's full-face pins and needles trauma, though.

As 80s singing sensation Yazz (and I use the term VERY loosely) might say, from here on in the only way is up.

And … here we go

A few weeks ago I was chatting to one of the guys who works at my yoga studio and in passing he just said "you're good enough - you should do the 30 day challenge."

I replied "…huh?"

The 30 day challenge, for those of you that don't know, is quite literally 30 days of yoga. Well, not literally, to be honest: it's really 30 classes in 36 days, so you do have six days leeway in case you want to take a day off here or there to, well, die.

They usually push it in January when everyone's on a post-Christmas health kick. I'd actually thought about doing it back then, but was put off the idea by the simple fact that I didn't think I'd be able to get all my kit washed and dry in time (and not forgetting the fact I was snowed in for two days). It wasn't until it was mentioned to me again the other week that I realised they actually ran it all year long, which is perfect because my washing is drying in about four seconds in this glorious heat.

So, the idea stuck in my head. In the days that followed I grew more and more interested in the idea of doing it, started working out how many new pairs of shorts I'd need to buy, and, crucially, whether there was going to be a glut of decent films coming out at the cinema that I'd risk missing while I dedicated my life to yoga (turns out there's not). I started working out how I could get to the studio everyday - which quite frankly is easy because it's not far from work. I liked the idea of having a challenge in my life. I cleared my social diary. I've told friends I'll be MIA for the next four weeks.

I bought this in preparation.

I'm doing this, and I start tonight.

(OK, technically I could've started yesterday, but I had a rather late night on Friday - my last social hurrah for a while - so I allowed myself a lazy day)

I'm fascinated by what it's going to do to my body. When I did three classes a week for a couple of weeks I noticed more definition in my shoulders, so lord knows what sort of effect 30 constant days of it will do. And yes, I'm aiming to do 30 days straight; I'll only use one of my six rest days if I *really* need it. Starting today, I should finish on August 9th.

That being the case, there'll obviously be a significant drop-off in the malarkey quota here for the next month or so. But! I'm thinking I *might* try to write very short daily updates tracking my progress; no promises, but it *might* happen.

So, wish me luck, and in the words of Mr J…

Tuxedo hotpants

As if you haven't noticed, Britain's been basking in a much-needed, long overdue heat wave for the last week or so. And bearing in mind I only seem to own three pairs of casual shorts what does that mean?

Summer wardrobe - yay!

OK, so while you'd imagine that sort of statement would go hand-in-hand with a little jump that stops at the apex in a freeze-frame - which would be awesome - it didn't; it actually led to a bit of sighing on my part because I'm having real difficulty finding any clothes I like at the moment. Still, always one for a challenge I decided to hit-up some shops.

My first stop was of the online variety - specifically ASOS - where I picked up a new white wifebeater vest because I inexplicably seemed to have dumped my old one. Either that or someone snuck in through my open window, stole it, and is currently sat at home reading Star Trek novels with it wrapped around their head or something. I also picked up a grey sleeveless tee because I had one of those years ago and absolutely j'dored it, but also seemed to have thrown that away at some point. Weird huh? Anyway, both tops were six quid each, making them, I think you'll agree, a bloomin' bargain (even if they end up disintegrating in the wash).

I was also tempted by a vest with a palm tree and dramatic sunset on it because it reminded me of something Tyler Durden wore in Fight Club, although one swift Google reveals that it's actually nothing like anything Tyler Durden wore in Fight Club so I don't know what I was smoking back in 1999 when I saw that movie. I still might buy it though.

If anyone can actually find me a vest with 'LIVE HARD SEX' written on the front that would be just fantastic.

The day after my vest shopping extravaganza I wondered down to Westfield to try to rectify the whole 'I only own three pairs of shorts' thing, because quite frankly it's a bit awkward only owning three pairs of shorts as it leaves you having to go at least a couple of days in jeans in the hot weather - an unenviable position because not only do they get hot and sticky, but because while the upper portion of my body tans rather easily, my legs are still embarrassingly pale; it's like they were transplanted from an albino. And before you say it, I am vehemently against this whole rolling up your jeans thing that everyone seems to be doing these days; they end up looking like capri pants, and my calves are too manly and bulgy to nail that look (thank god).

Anyway, bearing in mind I'm trying to be a bit more dapper these days and my three existing pairs are all of the tres casual variety (just thought I'd throw a little French in there), I thought I might look for something a little more tailored. So I went to Topman, primarily because I am, I like to think, a top man.

An epic fail ensued, however, because I found their selection depressingly limited. Not only that, but the one pair I did pick up - which I thought were just simple black shorts - actually turned out to be a horrific pair of truncated tuxedo trousers. I kid you not, they were *short* shorts made in the style of tuxedo trousers. I was so horrified that someone might actually see me holding them and mistakenly think that I was actually considering buying them that I flung them back on the rack and hot-stepped it out of there faster than Ini Kamoze. I simply can't fathom where or when they would've been appropriate to wear. Or, bearing in mind how short they were, legal.

I think the tuxedo hotpants scarred me a little bit because I felt a bit queasy after that and had to go and sit down for a while. Because I'm such a conscientious blogger, though, I thought I'd give you the option of seeing them for yourself. Please approach with caution, however, and note that while they may look of reasonable length here, in real life even Kylie might balk at the prospect of slipping into them.

*voms in mouth a bit*

On the plus side, my vests were delivered on Friday. Curiously, though, while I ordered both in medium and the white wifebeater fits *perfectly,* the grey one is huge. So huge, in fact, that as I stood there looking at myself in the mirror, I had flashbacks to when I was about four years old and tried on some of Sparky Pa's clothes. As a result, I'll be sending that one back.

Of course, what all of this summer shopping adds up to is the fact that inevitably just as I'm baring arms and finally ready for this wonderful hot weather the sun will implode and - BAM! - autumn will arrive. Always one to look on the bright side, however, at least then I'll have a reason to go shopping for a new winter wardrobe - hopefully without fear of my eyes being assaulted by a pair of tuxedo hotpants.

Jerk off

About a month ago I received an email telling me that a comment had been left on a post I wrote back in September 2007 entitled Crotch rot. That post, for anyone who can't remember or can't be bothered to hit the link and go read it, told the thrilling tale of me having to buy a new pair of jeans to replace a pair that had developed a rather ill-placed hole in the groinal region (although you might consider it a well-placed hole if you can't be bothered, or don't have the time, to undo your trousers before going to the toilet).

Seriously, though, you should go read that post; it was vintage - a bit like the jeans.

So anyway, this comment dropped into my inbox. Comments made on old posts are more often than not spam or, even worse, spam in Chinese so I can't even read it and dream about what I would do with piles of cheap viagra, an 18 inch penis, or the money deposited into my bank account by a Nigerian prince, but this one grabbed my eye because it was a legitimate comment from a real person, albeit one named Chip Monk (although not this one - at least I don't think so anyway).

And then I read it.

"Crotch rot? Holes in the crotch area in your jeans, underwear, sweats or any other fabric that covers your genitals? Well, maybe you have the same problem I have -- I find whenever I'm sitting down in any semi-private area: at my desk, in the car, etc., my left hand mysteriously (and chronically) somehow finds its way to my penis where it habitually wants to massage the head of my penis through the cloth. Over varying amounts of time all this penis attention eventually gets the best of any clothing I wear over my groin area. Having had the problem of crotch rot for many years its my opinion that your problem may be the same as mine. I wonder if anyone will ever come up with a solution that works?"

Now, I've been accused of many things over the years, but causing the material of my clothing to disintegrate via the medium of chronic masturbation is one of the more bizarre. I mean, unless you're buying really cheap clothing from Primark I think you'd really have to be going pretty gung-ho to wear a hole in anything. Particularly denim. And in the car? Bitch, please; I can't even begin to fathom how that would work. I mean, I use my left hand to change gear - can you imagine the tailback it would cause on the dual-carriageway if you couldn't change out of first?

Don't even get me started on the "at my desk" part. I work in an open plan office - just imagine how awkward that would be:

"Call on line one for you."

"Oh, um, could you, like, maybe take a message or someth- oh shit, I've worn a hole in my trousers."

So, dear Chip Monk, if you're reading, while I'll happily admit that I have on occasion been plagued with crotch rot in my jeans, I can assure you that my problem most certainly does not originate for the same reasons as yours. As for a solution that works, maybe you should try a bowl of corn flakes, or at least sit on your hands for a while? Basically anything that gives your wiener an opportunity to recover even for a few hours is probably for the best - the poor thing is probably more chafed than an arctic explorer's cheeks.