She firmly, yet not unkindly, pats her hand on my midriff as I try to “stand normal”. She is assessing my posture. It is unnerving.
I’m literally head and shoulders taller than her and as I pull myself up to what my Gramps used to call my “fighting height” I feel like I’m a giant.
This is awkward.
But seemingly not for her.
This tiny, compact Vietnamese woman has been scrutinising me with laser precision. Walking round me, head to one side sometimes. Peering at my back, my sides, my arms…occasionally moving me this way or that – gently pushing me here and there…
She stands back and, after an achingly long pause, says firmly: “You have no core”