A pancake and maple syrup-fuelled trip to Canada leads Andrea Levy to her first yoga class

After a long, eight-week summer holiday with the kids, it was with some trepidation that I finally stepped onto the scales. We’d taken them out of school two weeks before they officially broke up for a long overdue visit to relatives in Canada. It was on our very first morning there – as we staggered bleary-eyed and jet lagged into the breakfast room, and was confronted by mountains of croissants and waffles – that I realised I would be flying home twice the woman I had been on the flight over – literally! After 17 days of pancakes (all smothered in pints of maple syrup, of course), popcorn, french fries and fizzy drinks, I sat on the plane home, in the comfort of my elasticated pyjama bottoms (the only item of clothing to still fit me). I sat back with a large G&T and a pack of peanuts and decided I’d worry about it once we returned to blighty. But another six weeks of picnics and ice cream in the sun followed. Enjoying every mouthful, I assured myself I can’t be doing too much damage, and that anything that goes on, can just as easily come off. And so the day came when I finally dug out the dusty scales that had been hiding under the bed. Gasp! 22lbs on! In eight weeks! Surely that’s impossible? Three more weigh-ins just to make sure, and two negative pregnancy tests (there had to be another reason for this!) later, I was online, researching my local fitness centres. But which class to do? Reading through the various descriptions, as I

munched through one last packet of chocolate hobnobs, I tick off each and every one: Swimming: don’t like chlorine in my eyes. Salsa: got no rhythm. Cycling: after four kids – you’re kidding? Running: don’t like sweating. And then, last but not least….yoga. This looks good, I thought. Strengthen my core stability; calming; stress-reducing; muscle toning; aids weight loss. Perfect. With that, I gulped the last hobnob (whole) and picked up the phone to book my first class. Wish me luck!