I am so pleased to see that my personal trainer, Sebastian, is finally calming down. In isolation, along with his sister, Rainbow, he’s been struggling a little with the stress of the process. Here in lovely Vancouver people have been observing the lockdown very well, and as a result we had just one new death yesterday. Of course, even one is one too many, however the process does appear to be working.
He does help me online each morning as I work out, but I can hear the stress in his voice. I mentioned this very thing to Mistress Meg just yesterday.
“He does seem to be a little on edge,” I said. “It makes it hard to relax as I am doing yoga. He is rather highly strung.”
“Yes,” replied Meg. “He probably should be.”
Sympathy is not the primary emotion that springs to mind when chatting with Mistress Meg. Many of you will know her from her writing in the Seahorse level. Never one to stifle her opinions, I think she thinks of Sebastian rather like a puppy that continually looks for approval. She seems unsure whether she should laugh at it, pet it, or give in to the inevitable urge to give it a hefty kick over the nearest fence while no one is looking.
Perhaps you can see why. When you’re used to using various instruments either on or in men of all ages, shapes and sizes, you’re unlikely to be phased by the enthusiastic simpering of one so worldly unwise. I can only wonder what she makes of the terminally innocent likes of Rainbow.
While Rainbow lives on almond milk and asparagus, she follows a regime of such healthy rigour that I am surprised it hasn’t killed her yet. I once offered her a white bread peanut butter sandwich, as she looked so pale.
“Is it gluten free?’ she asked, adjusting her homespun cotton yoga pants.
“Is it what?” I replied.
“Gluten free. And are those peanuts free trade? I can only eat that if it’s free trade.”
“I really don’t know,” I replied.
At this point Mistress Meg, who happened to be in my kitchen at the time, said that she would make a point of trying to contact the children that harvested the peanuts on their cell phones and ask, before they have to return to their shift in the mine where they’re digging up minerals used in the manufacture of Iphones.
“I’m also lactose intolerant,” she added almost proudly.
“I once had a client who said that,” replied Mistress Meg. “That didn’t end so well.”
“What do you mean?” said Rainbow rather injudiciously.
“Well, have you ever had an enema of three litres of iced milk?”
Rainbow looked a little awkward and then said, “Kamboucha, yes. But not iced milk. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for that.”
Personally I’m not sure that I’d even use Kamboucha for that. I prefer the things I consume to at least be dead, whichever orifice they enter my body through.
However, that’s not the main reason I’m writing.
I’ve just posted a video I think you’ll enjoy. You can see it below. Be sure to let me know what you think. And if you really enjoy it be sure to sign up as a Seahorse.
Have a lovely weekend.
Fiona.
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