Honestly, I'm the world's worst yogi. Even though I have a wonderful teacher and been going to classes for years I can hardly do a shoulder stand.

As seasons pass, my body behaves less like an elastic band and more like a sheep carcass. It's my fault. Doing the exercises every day at home demands discipline.

My routine's already full to the brim with drinking coffee, lying in the bath, reading school notices and everything. Much as I'd like to, there's no time for doing headstands against the kitchen cupboards. Even if I could do headstands. And if I tried I might get stuck then who'd rescue me?

One of my more arduous duties this week involved Christmas mince pies. Like spring lambs in winter, they've just appeared on the supermarket shelves. Even though it's nowhere near Christmas I bought them because my husband adores them.

He ate two before announcing in sanctimonious tones that he's going on a diet. The remaining four mince pies lingered on top of the bread bin for days. Personally, I'm not that fond of Christmas tarts but someone had to clean them up didn't they?

It won't last. Where diets are concerned he has a will of jelly. I caught him hoeing into my secret stash of chocolate the other night. Nobody's supposed to touch that stuff. It's my half way through a diet, can't stand it any longer chocolate.

He reckoned he could get away with it because he'd be taking our daughter tramping over the weekend and the exertion would burn up all the calories in the chocolate. He's almost as bad as I am.

Yoga is seldom recommended for weight loss - though I suppose some energy is burned carrying a mat and blanket to and from the car. It's more about balancing the mind and body, tuning into cosmic energy and trying not to fart.

Rolling around the floor in undignified positions (familiar to midwives and vets alike) can provoke loud, involuntary explosions. Even though yoga students are mature individuals more interested in spiritual development than bad jokes, breaking wind is the most embarrassing thing that can happen in a class.

It would help a bit if they laughed and shattered the tension. They never do. Instead their expressions grow even more serious as they concentrate on Down Face Dog. No doubt they're thinking there for

the grace of God - specially seeing a lot of them are vegetarians and eat buckets of beans.

I was touched when my husband and the 12 year old said they'd like to join me for yoga classes on Wednesday nights. Even warned of the potential for humiliation, they still wanted to tag along.

"What should I do if it happens to me?” the 12 year old asked.

"Say nothing and glower at the person in front of you,” I replied, probably my best piece of advice for the whole year.

My yogi novices were slow getting their mats and blankets bundled into the car. It was raining and we were running late.

"We'll miss the quiet time at the beginning when we get to lie down and relax!” I hissed.

By the time we reached the tennis club rooms where classes are held, all feelings of global love and harmony inside the car had evaporated. Pretending we were a loving family, even though we were nearly throttling each other, we lay our mats alongside each other in the back row.

My husband said he didn't mind being the only man in a class of 12. When we were told to choose a partner for mutual massage he was practically mobbed. Watching an elderly woman in green track pants eagerly brushing negative energy out of your man's spine can only strengthen a marriage, I suppose.

Nobody wanted me or the 12 year old, so we partnered each other. It was a relief really. I don't enjoy handling people I hardly know. She grabbed my shoulders, rotated them like helicopter blades and with vigorous thumps on my back almost pushed me over.

Both my husband and daughter were 10 times more flexible than me, which didn't seem fair considering how long I've been at it. Never mind. Breathing's important in yoga. And I'm definitely more skilled at breathing.

With our chakras balanced and our auras cleansed, we bowed to the teacher at the end of the lesson and thanked her, as we always do.

"Nobody farted,” the child said in the car going home.

She sounded disappointed. Helen's email address: notnuts@bigpond.com

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