These days have been much the same as each other really. We learn new stretches that put us into contorionist positions that are to be held for seemingy hours. We learn new exercises that make use of mats or large yoga balls or flexible bands or all three, and these are repeated for seemingly hours.
We have been classified according to our specific curve (I'm a Thl L, for Theraco-lumbar Left, which means my curve starts in the middle of my back on down, and curves to the left.)
We have each had a lung capacity test, where we blew as hard as possible into a little tube while a graphic of the wolf blowing down the pigs' straw house danced in front of us on the computer, which determined whether we did have enough puff to do much structural damage to the porcine abode after all.
We have had one-to-one assessments where our flexibility and core were tested (thank you Anita, Shauna and Nancy - I had the best core of the group!) and one of the four physiotherapists noted our medication and pain intensities and any other interesting tidbit that they determined relevant.
Our walking pattern has been analyzed. We stepped along a spcial pad that registered our weight distribution digitally and then illustrated it on screen as if it was a topographical map. I was flatly told I have flat feet. Which I knew, but being told I have flat feet is somehow unflattering. I was also told the top part of may back is flat, which I thought would be a good thing, but apparently it's not particularly. I now must do a special exercise to round that upper part, and send my breath into it to expand the space into a nice "natural" curve.
At lunch time we troop off alone or in small clusters to one of the little parks nearby to each our packed food. And this is where it gets surreal.
It's April. It's London. It's warm.
I am just as surprised as you are! We sit on the grass in our tee-shirts and exercise leggings and gaze around at the typically vast array of people taking up every square inch of grass available. Jackets come off and we are blinded by the white of so many shirts, the City's uniform in its 'at ease' mode. Everyone eats sandwiches or salads bought at Tesco Metro or M&S, the mini-grocery stores that make their money between 1pm and 2pm every working day, queues of people with their prawn cocktails and chicken tikkas and egg mayonnaises lining up around the aisles, a snake of black and navy and grey light wool.
Then suddeny it's time to go back and we join the chain back to our 'office' ready to do 4 more sets of 'side lining on a ball' or 'supine tension with poles' or 'ballerina stretch'. Just another day at the office.