By James Nestor, The Guardian, July 26, 2020
The place looked like something out of an old horror film: all paint-chipped walls, dusty windows, and menacing shadows cast by moonlight. I walked through a gate, up a flight of creaking steps, and knocked on the door.
When it swung open, a woman in her 30s with woolly eyebrows and oversize white teeth welcomed me inside. She asked me to take off my shoes, then led me to a cavernous living room, its ceiling painted sky blue with wispy clouds. I took a seat beside a window that rattled in the breeze and watched through jaundiced streetlight as others walked in. A guy with prisoner eyes. A blonde woman with an off-centre bindi on her forehead.
I’d come here on the recommendation of my doctor, who’d told me: “A breathing class could help.” It could help strengthen my failing lungs, calm my frazzled mind, maybe give me perspective.
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