I’d booked a private one-to-one session with her for an hour on the afternoon of the day she flew in. I’d booked it casually, thoughtlessly, on a recommendation, a month in advance, unaware of her reputation. I’d dutifully filled in the form she sent me, circling problem areas on a drawn representation of my body, and mailed it back. It was only as the appointment drew near that I began to take heed, when overhearing talk at the yoga centre, of the excitement at the imminent arrival from across the pond of the great Linda Strong (as we’ll call her). The impression was of a St Paul scheduled to visit Antioch for a few weeks to whip the faithful into shape.
The day, then the hour, of our private session came. I arrived at the yoga centre in a lather after driving like a maniac to get there on time and sprinting up the hill. I’d had a stressful day and was off my head. Following my one-to-one session with Linda, I planned to have a good drink at a gig by a wildly popular local ska band and I was wearing my Fred Perry polo shirt and sweater.
The door of the yoga centre opens on to the changing area. I went in and there she was, in person, flown in from America that afternoon, now taking payment from the gent with whom she’d been having the one-to-one session before mine. One glance was enough to verify her credentials. Seeing was believing. Here was an athlete at her peak, radiating health, strength, poise, power. Above all, power. In that small room she was an overwhelming presence, formidable in skintight pants, resting her weight on one bare, muscular foot while accepting a cheque from a client.
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