I've
never done tai chi before, but I reckon I'll
be OK. I've always thought it a sport for Chinese
pensioners and my grandmother, who recently received
a new hip.
It's only in the changing rooms
that I wonder: what does one wear for tai chi?
A bandana? Flowing robes? Not that I have either
- my aerobia wardrobe doesn't extend much beyond
Nike shorts and an old T-shirt I got from bungee-jumping
in New Zealand.
So it's a relief when I walk
into the studio to find a group of middle-aged
men and women milling around in cardigans and
T-shirts tucked into their high-waisted tracksuit
bottoms. It's hard to believe that Ted Baker
is but a stone's throw away on the King's Road.
Andy, our tai chi 'master',
bounds over to shake my hand. How friendly, I
think. Half an hour later, Andy is
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Chelsea Sports Centre, London SW3 |
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still being
friendly - in what feels a mite-too-friendly
sort of way. Apparently I am rubbish at tai chi; every
few minutes he is at my side, caressing my legs into
the 'correct' position and prodding at my unruly hips.
He even takes the liberty of grasping my head in both
hands and rolling it around. To "release the energy",
he says.
That aside, the class is actually
very good. The basic movement around which everything
revolves is a rhythmic sway by which you shift weight
from side to side. Sounds easy. Andy throws in some
complicated arm rotations and slow-motion kicks and
things get a lot harder. I have new respect for my
grandmother. 
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