Oh, please...I exaggerate. This is no ordinary stalking. You think I go round town panting like a dog? Well, I may have done that now and again, but this time I had done my research. I wanted to see the camel pose. Preferably, I wanted to see Karen do it. But first, having seen a few clips ( kneeling on the floor, head thrown back, hands clutching feet, hips forward ), I skyped George. He said, rather mournfully, that he wasn't in the mood to demonstrate the camel. Now, at his peak- both professionally and intellectually- George wrote a masterpiece on the history and practice of modern warfare. I never read it. But at the time, those who did, said it was the most penetrative work on warfare since Clausewitz. Now, if I had skyped George while he was two thirds of the way into the penultimate chapter in the long awaited follow up to that book, he would have said, of course, dear boy...Why didn't you ask sooner? He'd have whipped off his apron, done the camel, and we would both have been back at our computers with our screens, and our lives, intact. But, in fact, George has fallen into the pit of middle age and, like me, hasn't been seen for years. He is no longer expected to return to his post as Head of History, and his colleagues and peers no longer expect another book. So of course, any chance he gets to refuse someone the camel, he'll take it. So these were the events prior to my vigil on Franklin Road last night. I wanted to know about the camel, and Karen, preferably together- and I had made the mistake of asking the assistance of one the great historians of the late 20th Century. And so while I may have looked, and felt, like any common pervert - I suggest that is not entirely the case ( though I reserve the right to be considered such at any previous or future time). So what I saw was this: a room of wall to wall mirrors with sixteen people, all of them standing on separate, coloured mats. Another woman, with a headset, the ringleader. She was barking instruction the entire ninety minutes. And there, near the back, another woman. She wore a black two piece, top and pants, bare arms. It may or may not have been Karen. Let's call her X. Or, rather, Ex. Indulge me, we have time. George said it would be an hour before they do the camel. And so I watched as the sweat poured off these poor creatures. God, if I were to have a woman ordering my body into cartoon postures, it would be in a London basement...Such tired thoughts filled the time until I saw Ex, on her knees, her head thrown back, her hands on her feet. She thrust out her hips, extending her solar plexus, offering it as the centre of herself. Holding, stretching, further, stretching. Then, in a blizzard of birthing, as if her body had made a promise to the universe, she lifted herself slowly back, into her back. I had steamed up the glass. Had I even seen anything clearly...? I stood back. It was getting dark. I could have stayed longer but wanted to be alone...Wasn't I, already? To be alone, to think. So I said goodbye to Karen, who may or may not have been Karen, and went looking for my car.