As a unicorn trail hits Bristol for the summer (we are ‘over’ Shaun the Sheep, Gromit and gorillas, but we do like a sculpture formula in Brizzle), I am delighted to learn that the collective noun for a group of unicorns is a ‘blessing’. This blessing seems a delightful transition from the mermaid phase I have been enjoying (reader, since the last blog, my nudge has been accepted and there has been an inaugural gifting of my wonderful friend’s unicorn tail in my grateful direction; #result). I feel that these unicorns may coax me out of my new tail and encourage me to put both feet back on terra firma with a new found confidence.

Out of interest, a mermaid tail is also known as a ‘fluke’ and I would indeed be fluking if I gave the impression that my feet have been inactive since I last blogged, tempting though the thought has been. Mermaid research tells me that I would need to morph into a siren and grow two tails if I wanted to attempt some mobility on land without looking like a competitor in a sack race.

We all know that, even with my positive attitude and a great costume, I do not have the capacity to pass as a siren.

Just as I have not always posed as a mermaid, I have not always posed as a teacher (coming up to 20 years now, thank you for asking) but when I first started in the classroom the summer term seemed quite leisurely and good-humoured – it felt like a gentle taper to the start of the official break. Somewhere in the intervening years, the Ministry of Fun/Education decreed that the last term should now be packed full of:

• celebration evenings
• external exams (no marking)
• internal exams (lots of marking)
• sports day (including a humiliating staff relay)
• activities week
• careers fairs
• year 10 work experience
• leaving speeches for retiring staff
• report writing
• proms for Year 13 and Year 12
• the odd bit of teaching

Thankfully, my tail had been packed away by the time of the Year 13 Prom. Dinner is eaten, the photo booth is enjoyed and the tables are packed away for some dancing – except most of the students have disappeared for a sneaky vape or are sitting on the hotel sofas checking the FTSE 500. The DJ is reluctant to ditch the grungy play list that the students have gifted, but we manage to persuade him that ‘the youth’ can be encouraged on to the dance floor for some unapologetic cheese. I beg the DJ to play the Macarena for it is a long night ahead for a lady of my years if she can not have a drink; I need to drive the mini bus back to school at 2 am and I have already started looking at my watch – dancing will be my only distraction. After 20 years of teaching and many student proms I believe that I have now perfected the choreography for this banging track. I think the students appreciate my effort – their phones are certainly out capturing the moment, and they seem to be sharing their footage; I am sure to be trending on TikTok before I am back in the minibus. Bless.

While my feet are made for dancing, my lovely boot camp girls also factor in a weekend of birthday activity for two of the tribe (see my blog back catalogue for context), ensuring that I also flex my trail shoes during this period. I only manage one of the three days, and although I believe my social battery to be depleted (see above list), I came back rebooted and regretting not being able to stay for the full weekend.

Incidentally, I do wonder what the collective noun is for a gaggle of gorgeous gals? A ‘bevy’ or ‘matriarchy’ doesn’t quite cut it.

I knew the weekend was going to be a blast when I arrive at the Hay-on Wye bunkhouse with my sister in law and discover that there is an indoor slide and a pulpit in this converted chapel – all bases clearly covered on this mini break. 18 of us set out for a yomp along Offa’s Dyke. I realise I have been here before as a child with my family, but do not recall my mother (native to this area) telling me that one of the peaks is known as ‘Lord Hereford’s Knob’. You just know that the day is going to be great when your tour guide is ready to share such a nugget of information.

We walk for over five hours – a bit like ultra running (did I tell you that I am now an ultra runner?), for we go slowly, pit stop regularly, and my wonderful companions keep producing Tupperware containers packed with amazing home cooking. I realise that if I do ever run another ultra marathon, I will now need to pack flapjack and millionaire’s shortbread in my back pack. Thankfully, at the end of the weekend, the birthday girls’ Whatsapp group gifts me a plethora of recipes, photos and recommendations for the best dryrobes, trail shoes and yoga pants. It feels like I have downloaded an education pack for the active woman of a certain age and I am very, very happy to have the expertise of these ladies on tap. All bases covered.

We return to the bunk house and the evening blends into optional cold water swimming, a little yoga, some silly games and a sit down curry for 18 (unsurprisingly, no-one opts out of this culinary delight for it has been at least an hour since we have partaken in any nosh). One of our party has even had the foresight to arrive with an electric fan and a foot massager, predicting both a heat wave and sore trotters – all bases covered again . I am in awe of the weekend’s orchestration and realise I have a lot of learning to do if I am to organise my own 60th milestone later in the year.

On the drive back home I wonder if I can flex my organisational skills and choreograph a boot camp run around the new Bristol Unicornfest. I can not make this my birthday ‘thing’ but I can get my tribe together again before the herd disperses in September (the blessing, not my tribe). When I start my research next day, I see that the possibilities are endless – on the official website there are lesson plans, unicorn recipes, sponsorship opportunities – very similar to the brithday Whatsapp group in-fact. The teacher in me is quite excited – I would jump off the sofa, but in the spirit of recharging, I am back wearing my mermaid fluke and cannot leap spontaneously without face planting.

Running around Bristol this morning, I share my plans with my running partner. He sees a couple of flaws in the organisation of a pre-birthday blessing. Firstly, when I go to highlight the glitter ball unicorn overlooking the harbourside, he points out that he has already noticed five unicorns on the run and that I seem to have been running with my eyes wide shut because I have not commented on any of them. (I feel a little defensive but agree that ever since my recent running falls, I have been running looking down at my feet). Secondly he tells me that there has been a spate of unicorn vandalism in Bristol and that people have been snapping off unicorn horns along the trail in a wanton and frankly unmagical fashion. Without a horn, a unicorn is just a horse – I guess in the same way that Lord Hereford would supposedly not have a peak if he did not have a knob. Besides, my research into unicorns leads me to believe that when a unicorn horn is broken, an angel weeps. We cannot have this on my birthday watch. I feel I have been fluked.

My running partner reminds me that I am will be returning to the Wye Valley for a half marathon trail run next weekend so really do not have time to get distracted by unicorns at this stage in the term. He does acknowledge that I may have time to knock up a batch of the flapjack I have been banging on about since my weekend away with the ladies – and if I do, he tells me it would be selfish not to bring it with me to the half marathon. I decide to put my Unicornfest plans on hold and just see if I can make it through the next two weeks without falling flat on my face again – after all, if I break my nose, it will not just be angels crying, for I still have a blessing of Year 10 English papers to mark. I need to cover all bases for these little cherubs.