My bowls, the source of every problem in my body, had decided to pack up (literally) and go on a holiday for two weeks, leaving me in pain and praying to the gods of poo for a little release! I tried laxatives, drinking lots of water, coffee, prune juice. I massaged between my thumb joint and the rest of my hand. I tried relaxing my bum muscles. Sitting on the toilet for hours reading. I even tried meditating, envisioning the act. Nothing.

So my last bid effort was a yoga class. I was hoping the relaxation would release something.
I don’t go regularly, although I’ve vowed that I will now, so I’m never quite sure what to expect.

No one really speaks to each other, and everyone else seemed a little more alternative than this blonde bimbo with pink nail polish and a towel to match. I smiled at the other members of the class, and we pretended to be busy warming up to avoid the stifling silence.

Enter Yoga Instructor. A lean man with a shaved head, and protruding bum. He ‘centered’ himself on the floor and began our class, opening with meditation. Many of the moves, he mentioned were good for the bowels. I had come to the right class!

Have you ever been dancing, or running, and you felt a small sound slip out. (Otherwise known as a fart). Imagine having them built up, holding your bum muscles so they don’t pop out, and doing exercises that are meant to release your gluteousmaximus. Not good. At all. There was one move that involved grabbing our feet with our hands, so we were spread eagle, then rolling on our spin, so our feet could touch the floor behind our heads. Oh gosh, I thought, I’m going to explode and have to run out, quite the gym and move house. Luckily, I remained silent! Thank GOD!

To finish off, we umm-ed and ah-ed with our eyes closed and hands placed in our laps, palm up. Suddenly, the sound of a wooden flute fills the room and I sneak an eye open. Yoga Instructor is in some crazy position, playing the recorder with his eyes closed, meditating. I looked around and noticed everyone else was as into it as he was, and I quickly shut mine and tried not to laugh to loudly.

The bowel result? It was simply PMS. Apparently my body holds it all in and then right when the lovely red bird arrives, so does everything else. God of poo has a bizarre sense of humour.