squat

The American squatted in the dirt, struggling to free the cantaloupe from its prickly stem, almost toppling over.

She got a place to study at Cambridge University but, struggling to cope with a lack of support, she dropped out and found herself sleeping rough and going between squats.

D5 - the squat bungalow - now sits derelict, out of place among a row of plush, well-kept homes.

Its opening poem, “Digging,” feels earthbound with its low-pitched vowels: “Between my finger and my thumb / The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.”

In part, I needed a trainer to keep me from dropping a barbell on myself; plus I had no clue how to safely do a squat, let alone design an effective workout.