Beryl was doing a spot of Kundalini yoga—or “yogurt,” as she pronounced it—when all hell broke loose around the camper van.
She had taken up yoga to find the sort of Zen feeling that Pete had cryptically talked about before he ended up back on Planet Hy Man. Her emotions were all over the place, swinging like a monkey on a tree, and isolating with people you wouldn’t sit next to on a bus didn’t help; neither did her friggin’ shoulder stand.
Her stomach slumped to her chest; she adjusted with a grunt, trying to ignore the commotion outside.
“The girls,” as Legless liked to call his hens, were screeching about the camper van like they were dancing on hot coals, while Charlton Heston was crowing like someone had cut his balls off.
She stretched her feet higher, pushing her beehive askew,
