There is yoga here twice a day. 6.45 am we shuffle up to the conference hall which has fantastic views over the Arabian Sea. The mats are laid out on the floor. I take my place in the back row. That is the row for the unfit and the unpunctual. No matter how early you arrive, Ludmilla and Svetlana are there in the front row, in the middle. They are not young. They are not slim. They look like they work in personal security for Russian oligarchs and have a sideline scaring people away from nightclubs on a Saturday night. But these ladies must have been sportswomen in soviet times because no matter what pose, they can do it. They can fold themselves over like flick knives and they can tie their feet behind their heads. Makes us stiffies in the back row feel even worse about our pathetic attempts to touch our knees or whatever. Heidi, Ursula and friends are Swiss and German. They are fit and bronzed and flexible. They wear figure hugging clothes just so that we all know that they have no flab. They have never done yoga before, but by the second day they are doing full lotus and scratching their ears with their toes. I've got one up on them all though. I will not be noticed for the grace of my yoga poses, but I know the words to the sanskrit songs they sing at the beginning and the end. And my OM is in tune.
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