One of the fruits of many, many years at Boot Camp is my membership of the BMF Ladies’ Book Club. We did not set out to make the club gender specific – the lads just never get their act together and ask us to join – and technically you do not have to go to Boot Camp to be a member. That said, we still call it the BMF Ladies’ Book Club and it just happens to be populated by incredible ladies who know how to do a sit up or squat if asked.

Being an English teacher, you might think that I would have been asked to join many book clubs in my time – perhaps even established a few groups of my own. Sadly, just like with sports teams at school, I have never been asked to join a book club. I feel that my ladies may have convened this club out of pity for me because they are all members of various other book clubs. They tell me that they like this one best because we do actually read the book and because we do not take it too seriously – I guess it is a bit like morning Boot Camp; we do sometimes listen, we do like to chat and we do not take it seriously. Some of our literary contingent actually manage to read the same book at both their book clubs, so they have a 1:2 chance of sounding really intelligent at one of the gatherings (just saying).

I also love this group because you never catch them whinging. Alongside the odd bit of reading, members have navigated divorce, death, chemo, house and school moves, but they are all so stoic that it never ever becomes a pity party – maybe all those burpees first thing in the morning have honed our inner core.

We have an arrangement that we bring the snacks and drinks of our choice and rotate the venue. We are all creatures of habit and tend to all bring the same snacks and then congratulate each other on choosing the best snack. One of our members brings her own ‘growler’ – a little flagon for her real ale – and some of us pretend to be teetotal. (Others do not, and have been known to take flagrantly irresponsible control of some electric scooters on their return journey).

At our last meeting, although I had for once completed the book in time, I had not really thought ahead and prepared to sit in a garden when the evening temperature dropped. I came straight from work and noticed when I arrived that the others all seemed to have turned up wearing Dryrobes, jumpers and socks and were looking rather snugly (this may have been pre-circulation of the growler before I arrived, who knows). I had made a timid stab at sartorial elegance by arriving in work wear, but this would be scant comfort once the sun dipped down.

I brave it through a discussion of our chosen novel (‘Lessons in Chemistry,’ since you ask) and for once we all seem to approve of our choice – I do still have some misgivings about the dog with an extensive word repertoire, but I bow to the expertise of my literary gals. We then get a little distracted by discussing the food and sleeping arrangements for the forthcoming 60th birthday party of one of our contingent (you will never guess who from the photo), another Boot Camp splinter group – this time two luscious Boot Campers will galvanise us into a weekend of outdoor pursuit to distract us from a ageing. I sense there will be no book discussion at this meeting for we have been asked to bring mosquito repellant, lycra and a stash of alcohol.

I then start to feel my teeth chattering and begin to regret my choice of cotton slack and cheesecloth blouse.

Thankfully, my host notices my blue tinged lips and asks if I would like to borrow a throw or an extra layer or two; she returns with some rugs and – best of all – a mermaid foot sock on loan from her youngest daughter. Earlier in the week I had watched a documentary on the growing trend for children’s mermaid parties in the US, and had been troubled to see one mermaid traumatise her young clients when the zip on the back of her tail split when she tried to pour herself into the costume before being thrown into the swimming pool. If only this mermaid had known that you can wear a fleece tail – no zips or fish are harmed in the making of the garment I am modelling and the fabric is much more forgiving. (I could make a pun about scales here but I refuse to dive down to those depths).

You can see from the accompanying photo, that as soon as I don said mermaid tale, I have a complete epiphany. Call me shallow (you will, especially when you notice the earnest literary conversations going on in the background of the shot while I flip my fins for the camera) but this tail is an absolute tonic. I always thought I wanted channel my inner dragonfly, but now I think I need to be more mermaid. I may need to change the name of this blog.

Apparently mermaids are wise and closely in tune with their environment – I am clearly neither of these things (until I posted the attached photo, I hadn’t noted that my sister-in-law is oblivious to the fact that she is discussing our novel with her dog sat on her lap; I think the role model of a dog working his way through a thesaurus has motivated him to ‘be more human’ and by sitting on her lap he is at a strategic level to snaffle the snacks. Archie is the only dog I know who smiles when he greets you, so if he wants to sample some hummus and dip, then who am I to disoblige him?).

You will not be able to tell from the photo, but on the very next day, one of our party will have her final chemo session and three days later she will invite anyone brave enough to join her for a cold water swim, to celebrate this milestone. Ironically, even though by then I probably could have borrowed my tail fin back, I do not make the cut for this event on account of my weak doggie paddle and aversion to cold. (This last sentence makes me wonder if I really should be a member of this book club, and whether I have the marine requirements to be a full time mermaid).

Back to my tale/tail (sorry).The only downside I can see of sporting a mermaid fin is trying to move about on terra ferma, but since I have spent the last few weeks falling flat on my face without any fins, this mermaid prosthetic may actually encourage me to be more graceful. It may all go swimmingly (sorry).

So I say goodbye to our book club for another couple of months (we may be able to run, but we are very slow readers) and I look longingly at my host, hoping that she is going to say that her daughter no longer needs her mermaid tail. My host is oblivious – she is already planning the next splinter group for Boot Camp – a theatre trip that will certainly involve a growler or two of gin if we can smuggle them into stalls. I realise that I am going to have to return this temporary gifting; I start making very unsubtle hints about my own imminent 60th birthday, noting that it is hard to buy a present for a woman who has everything she needs…

Thankfully, this tale (…) has a happy ending. Next day I receive a message with details of our next book choice. It turns out to be a whopper – ‘The Blind Assassin’ by Margaret Atwood, if you want to read along. Our host from last night quickly follows this up with a personal message to me, ‘Hey, Ariel, I will bring my daughter’s mermaid tail to Boot Camp next week and you can have it on long term loan – it is probably the only way to keep you in one place and get the next book finished in time’.