For as long as I have lived back in France, Monday nights have been my yoga nights. T would race back home from lectures at the hospital, we would meet in the hall, where he got my yoga mat down. I shouted instructions about dinner, kissed everyone, and usually ended up making small talk to some non-plussed neighbours while putting my shoes on in the lift.
When I came back from class, all relaxed from
falling asleep contorting into weird postures , the children would have miraculously vanished to bed, T would put my yoga mat back on its high shelf and tell me about the latest i-phone app he’d downloaded while I finished dinner. He sometimes made old-fashioned hot chocolate we would drink in front of telly.