Granite Barre

I hitched a lift inside a student's canvas tote straight down to the quiet Georgian terraces of Merrion Square. Dropping onto the broad granite doorstep of a townhouse, I spotted an antique cast-iron boot scraper bolted firmly into the stone slab. Its level scraper blade stood at the exact height of my waist, flanked by two sturdy wrought-iron curls. Tucking my silver microphone securely into my belt, I hooked my right boot heel over the cool, weathered iron bar and gripped the curved scroll with my left hand. Sinking into a deep, grounded side lunge, I rolled through my ribs and threw my free arm high, using the street architecture to stretch my hips completely open.