The clock passed midnight as I lay awake, looking like a hostage. As a mouth breather, I longed to stop resembling a fairground clown
Last summer on a farm in Victoria I accompanied a friend to a breathing workshop. “I know how to breathe! I’ve been doing it since I was born,” I protested as I trudged past cowpats and hay bales, breathing like a pro. “This guy has nothing to teach me!”
I was a breathing sceptic. Who needed to be taught how to breathe? Isn’t breathing as natural as … breathing? It sounded like baloney.
