Edition 86: "Downward Facing Dog"

Negative Soundbyters – a “Mission Impossible”-Tom-Cruise-inspired morning to you all (his face popped up on a bus as I sit and scribe). Facing the swamp first thing can certainly feel that way at times. If only our day involved jumping out of aeroplanes; careering across European cities in high speed car chases; scaling skyscrapers with the equivalent of sticky pads on your hands and feet; facing down nuclear fuelled villains intent on blowing the world to smithereens – and getting your work assignment on your iPhone before the phone explodes (with you at a safe distance).

About the only thing I have in common with Tom Cruise’s average day is that I get out for the odd run. He is a man constantly on the run; he doesn’t do a film these days where he isn’t running somewhere. I bet he would have put his name in the hat for Forrest Gump if he knew how much running Forrest was going to get up to. He is probably still bummed deep-down that the other Tom will forever be associated with “Run Forrest Run”. But everybody loves a trier and Tom C has been making up for it ever since! My legs start aching just watching him.

We needed Tom at the Houses of Parliament yesterday although the scale of the “attack” meant he might not have bothered. The supposed “terrorist” drove his silver Ford Fiesta at full speed into a large steel reinforced barrier that is specifically designed to resist such blunt attempts at forcing access. Regrettably he injured a few cyclists in his path to a lifetime in jail, but if his aim was to maim and kill the infidel why choose an inanimate object that was never going to yield to a Ford? And this was a guy who had apparently been to university – all very odd.

About as odd as standing behind Muhammad from the Land of the Long White Dune and Hu from the Land of Hello Kitty trying to order coffee at Starbucks. London thrives because droves of tourists come from all over the world to check out the sites but would I be guilty of discrimination if I suggested that there be two queues in coffee shops close to tourist destinations – one for Londoners; the other for foreigners. As a Londoner I am always in a hurry –that means my card is ready to tap as I place my order in no more than five words in a clear, concise tone. Annoyingly in Starbucks you have to give your name; thankfully “Chris” or “Kris” is universal. Maybe I would have the same issues in Dubai or Tokyo, but being witness to Muhammad and Hu and the assortment of hand signals, gesticulations and heavily accented broken English that had the service ambassador wondering if she was communicating with beings from another planet, had me questioning how badly I needed my Double-Blend Coffee Frappacino!

And on that caffeine infused note let’s move on.

Big Love to all!

Hoddy X

I spoke earlier of aches-and-pains; how about a spot of yoga to ease those niggles?

Mrs H kindly offered up our extension as a “pop-up” yoga studio to one of her NCT friends to host a class for a group of yogis. We shifted all the furniture, Mrs H fired up some aromatic candles, dimmed the lighting and the Foxholme Sanctuary was open for business. I had my loose fitting clothing on (to ensure that I wasn’t restricted when I went into a deep “Downward Facing Dog” stretch) and my mat was neatly laid out – at the back of class – because no one wants to see a man butchering this long practiced art.

There was only one glitch in our carefully laid plans; can you guess? Here’s a clue – one year, crazy blonde hair and seven teeth?

Tots are not allowed into spas for good reason; they wreak havoc with the ambience. Meditation and an impatient or over-tired toddler do not mix. However we couldn’t very well tell Rafey to take himself down to the pub for an hour while Mom and Dad did the twist (in a yoga sense!) so we ensured that he would be fed, bathed and in bed before the class started.

That part went like clockwork – as it always does to be fair. We set the baby monitor up in our makeshift studio and both started our warm-up routines before the others arrived. (For me that means bending at the waist.). The atmosphere was akin to a bamboo hut in the middle of Sri Lanka minus large creepy-crawlies. However….

All this incense-infused calm had clearly not filtered upstairs. Maybe Rafe got Tot FOMO; it’s possible we underestimated his determination to practice the "Wounded Peacock" pose. Whatever the case he wasn’t having any of it and started bellowing into the baby monitor.

I unfurled myself (as in stood up straight) and hurtled upstairs to try and quell the rising storm. Rafe was standing bolt upright in his cot, hands planted firmly on its edge, giving the nursery door his best Darth Vader death stare. I wanted to be firm with him about “sleepy times” but when he reached up to me my steely resolve turned to Papa-mush! These tots know what levers to pull!

My son has a physique that makes him very difficult to rock to sleep these days – long and sturdy – which meant a cuddle (unless I want a short-cut to lower back surgery!) and then back into his cot. He looked at me intently for a moment and then started scrambling about in preparation for making a stand against sleep. I have introduced of late a new element into my armoury – singing. No one should hear me sing. (I do hope that Mrs H had turned the baby monitor down in the zen cave because if the yogis had heard my “dulcet” tones, it would have incinerated any collective karma.) However Rafe doesn’t know that I am about as tone deaf as a wooden door post and when I started belting out “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” combined with a gentle belly rub, he responded immediately – not with jeers and boos but with heavy eyelids and content tot noises. I fine rendition of my school song finished him off.

Unfortunately the class was in full swing by the time I had charmed my son to sleep so I retired to bed with a good book – a reasonable result in the end!

OUT :)

Pic of the Week

"Your're going to feed me WHAT for lunch?"