Yoga. Just the thought of it strikes fear in the heart of most Londoners.

All that stretching, the heavy breathing, the hours of grunting and sweating - and for what? No climax. What's the bloody point?

Living near the yummy mummy Mecca of Triyoga, you occasionally see those sleek, dewy-faced whippets prancing by the Pembroke or Engineer with their Nuala mats tucked nonchalantly beneath sinewy arms. Oh, how we laugh, our ample bellies jiggling the wine-glass strewn table.

Poor dears haven't figured it out, have they? London's best bachelors spend most of their weekends three rounds in at the pub. Which means one thing: beer goggles, which every sensible girl knows is better than candlelight for the complexion. Go on: name one good relationship that started over a tall pint of wheatgrass juice?

We may be wrong. Look at Apple's parents; though rumour has it that Gwennie is now back on the chips. Triyoga Soho opens next month, giving meedja lovies and temp-office Sharons the chance to Bikram or Ashtanga straight after work.

The new location obviously means a new clientele. Located just off Carnaby street, we predict Triyoga Soho will become the new pickup joint for those hyper-fit queens so keen to stay in the A-group.

Kinda gives new meaning to the term downward dog, doesn't it?