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I’m up to my eyeballs getting ready for a craft workshop that I’m teaching on Sunday (if you’re in the Manchester area and you want to make Judaica on Sunday, get in touch). I’m feeling a little under-prepared, and making lists at odd moments (in desperation I’ve turned to Remember the Milk to give me a central repository for them, otherwise I lose track of them in different parts of the house/ my bags/my mind) and trying not to spend too much money on supplies.

But this has been my first week of teaching Pilates two (and in the end three when I covered a class for someone) nights a week. Despite a really bad trip to one of the classes (never, ever, ever trust Google maps to tell you the truth) and the lugging of endless bags of mats, straps and blocks I’ve enjoyed myself immensely.

It’s a bit like going on holiday, you spend ages looking at brochures and deciding what you want to do (having possibly decided on a destination rather randomly), and then you take a deep breath and spend an awful lot of money. Then the journey to the place is invariably miserable and fraught with disaster and you think ‘Why did I ever decide to do this in the first place?’

Eventually you get to the place you’re going (and you’re not entirely sure how you managed to pull it off) and you wake up the next morning and it’s beautiful, and the people are nice and positively welcoming and you can’t  imagine having ever doubted your decision to come.

…and that, my friends, is what going to work is like for me.

(If it makes you feel any better, I rarely enjoy my holidays that much, and I have to wear Lycra to work, so I’m having to be really good about passing up the chocolate biscuits.)