If there’s one thing we can truly be sure of in life it’s this; no one wants to be told that they’ve got “unusually sized ears” by their yoga teacher. Nor do they wish to be accused of being a “weak-minded bimbo.” It also hurts to hear that you won’t amount to anything because you have a “massive forehead.”

Yet, such was the rudeness of my yoga teacher. A self-proclaimed master of life, she was yet to be acquainted with the notion of humility. Some brave folks had tried to ween her onto it, but she would always cut across them and insist that they needed a haircut. 

She had this habit of looking just past you, as if catching sight of a distant apparition, while simultaneously claiming to intuit your deepest fears.

“You’re not well-liked by your friends, are you?” She would ask.

If you started to disagree with the sentiment, she’d cut across you.

“No, you’re not well-liked by your friends.”

You would be well within your right to wonder, why go to such a person for yoga? Simply put, she was the best. After an hour with this lunatic and beacon of atrocious manners I felt as if I could move with the grace and elegance of Nijinsky.

Yesterday, I attended a session but I was five minutes late. As I entered the master’s studio, she was already chiding Helena for having given birth to a child two years prior.

“Your hips will never be the same, and I never had you cut out for motherhood anyway. Did you think this through?”

Needless to say, the mood was tense. Helena was in tears and the rest of the room was distracting itself by practicing the diabolical dog (our master’s spin on the downward dog). I was nervous as it was – lateness was regarded as an affront to The Buddha – but this only made me more fearful.

Master caught sight of me. Her wrath had shifted from Helena and I was the putz. She stared in my direction, like a salivating dog. She thrived on contempt. It was her favourite emotion.

I, on the other hand, was trembling.

All I had wanted was to be nimble and feel relaxed. This nutter was my reward.

“What time do you call this, thicko?” Said master.

I was frozen solid.

Master was not happy.

She moved to approach me. I feared what vitriol was about to pass her lips, but as if by some miracle she slipped in a pool of Helena’s tears and fell arse over heels. A classic tumble followed by a thud and a whimper.

It was ironic really, but we all made a real effort to get her to the hospital swiftly. She’d offended us all in ways that confounded one’s imagination, yet we felt a collective urge to ease the pain of her shattered hip. Such is the strangeness of life (or the intoxication of being in a cult without quite realising it).

Helena drove at breakneck speed through red lights while still crying her eyes out. She almost hit a tree but, fortunately, the tree moved and we were transported to a strange planet.

What was this?

Where were we?

Was I dreaming, or was this just a really good yoga session?

Master was turning into a warlock, and the rest of us were confused. I got out of the car. We were in the middle of a desert. I saw a figure emerging through the haze from afar. It was a horse. And on the horse was a giant chicken drumstick.

I turned to the master, who was now half-warlock, half-yoga teacher. She grinned and it made me shiver.

“I told you you’d never amount to anything.”

Then she ate the chicken drumstick and, looking rather greasy, galloped into the sun while yodelling a Hare Krishna show tune.

The next morning, I felt wonderful. A week later, not only did I find myself back for more, but I’d convinced two friends and my mother to join me.