A few months ago I went to a drop-in yoga class at ZenW2 on Queens Parade, Willesden Green. It was great. But in general yoga and I have a love-hate relationship: it loves me and I hate it.
I force myself to go because I feel the benefit when a class is over, my back straight and my muscles warmed. It’s during the class that’s the problem, specifically the first half hour. I’m always bored 25 minutes in. I can’t disconnect from the long list of life. Like a Las Vegas casino, a good yoga studio won’t have a clock in the room but for opposite reasons – yoga is not the thrill that steals time, it’s slow and relaxing. There’s no flashing lights or Elvis and the only gamble is guessing how long you’ve been in there.
I always choose drop-in classes across London, never courses, so that I can avoid familiarity. I’ve told every instructor that I’m a beginner because it gives me the option of disappearing into a child’s pose whenever I feel like it. God forbid I get on first name terms with a teacher who may notice slight improvement in my down dog and encourage me to lift a leg. If they don’t know me, I don’t have to overstretch myself.
Recently, I noticed that City Lit on Keeley Street in Holborn has over 5,000 courses in loads of different stuff, the variety of which is astounding. There’s yoga, contemporary dance, art, design, British Sign Language, creative writing, tech, piano lessons, origami, prop-making, comedy…and one of the best aspects of the college is that you can try any course for a fiver before deciding to sign up and commit to classes. This is very me.
One of the courses is hula hooping. I have three hula hoops at home, one regular and two weighted, plus two arm hoops that lie behind the couch in dusty wait. Perhaps this class could rekindle my hoop love.
The City Lit course costs £99 for four sessions, plus a £20 discount if you recommend a friend. As a motivator to get back into it, I recruit my pal Saskia and we sign up for the £5 taster course, just to check. You can’t be too hasty about these things, even with experience. (Experience has taught me that).
I’m quite excited as we exit Holborn station and head towards City Lit, an adult-education facility I’ve never been to, and I hope to learn new fitness tricks with the hoop in this excellent value 90-minute session. The class is also set to music, making it less likely I’ll look for a clock.
The instructor is very warm, but she explains she’s not an expert hooper and is covering for a shortage of instructors. I say to myself, look, what do you want for a fiver? Get on with it. She then informs us it’s a beginner’s class, and not to worry if we can’t hoop, because we will all be hooping by the end. Well then. Boom. I can already hoop, so I’m gonna be the champ here.
After a warm up, the boss tells us we’re to hoop for three-and-a-half minutes. Great, I think, and off we go. The room is full of very supportive females cheering each other on and generally being hilarious. One, from Herne Hill, is determined to get it right and pulls the greatest, most sculpture-like body contortions to keep the hoop level at the waist. As hoops drop all around me and I keep hooping I start to feel like an over-achieving imposter.
Our tutor asks for music requests, and I’m instructed by Saskia to take over this task. My mix goes from Grace Jones to Candi Staton to McFadden and Whitehead, then to Saturday Night Fever and A-ha and now most of us are hooping and singing along.
Two women leave early, fed up with the floor pick-up. Four of us remain, and we’re now hooping for our lives like we’re in Squid Game, pushing for the sweat, egging on the flat stomachs. “If the hoop drops, you’re out,” is the unstated focus. Our teacher shouts over the music, but we can’t hear her. There’s a laser focus in Hulaville.
I am approached as the super hooper, and she decides there is something she can teach me. “Hoop the other way,” she says. “You’ll use the muscles on the other side.” I accept this easy challenge. How hard can it be?
My hoop smacks to the floor over and over, and I’m mad with the pick-up. I can’t do it. I cannot hoop to the right. The boss doesn’t smirk, bless her, but she should. Eventually, I master the hoop to the right and she’s all “Woop woop”. I feel ashamed and embarrassed that I have been overly-displaying my mastery of the left.
Saskia is brilliant on the hoop and we’ve had fun. After class we walk up to Soho and I introduce her to a delicious No Meat Monday from Itsu, which we take away. The rain comes pelting down, so we eat in the little tunnel by the Pillars of Hercules, watching it lash and drinking Miso soup. When it stops, the sun comes out and we head to Bond Street for home.
On the Tube, we decide we don’t need to sign up for the City Lit beginners’ hula hooping course because we can both hoop quite well. We commit to practicing in the park together on a more regular basis. Saskia tries to convince me that I could instruct a class (as long as we’re not hooping to the right), but I think I’d only be good at the music.
That was two weeks ago. We’ve done nothing since. I think I might go back to yoga at ZenW2. I’ll put my hair in a bun, wear different trousers, stand at the back and say I’m a beginner.
Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots, lots more. Follow her on X/Twitter. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.