Zumba bum

A few months ago, if you’d asked Bev how many different types of leggings there were, she’d have told you to jog on. The banner on the square read ‘Zumba class, Social Dis-Dancing, all welcome’. She knew that meant the trim mums from the new estate would show up. Week one, she’d faked a mission for essential veg and had been surprised to see some older women bouncing about. Week two, she stood at the back, prepared to slip off if it all got too much. She wore her gardening trousers — loose enough to bend, not tight enough to show the mottling on her thighs. But she could feel the sweat on the back of her knees.

‘M&S do a nice range of athleisurewear,’ her daughter said during their daily call. ‘You choose, mum. I’ll order online and drop them round.’

She slipped on the navy leggings and the matching top that came down to above her knees.‘No chance of a Zumba bum’, her daughter had laughed. By the third week, she was first down to the village square. She’d heard some of the women got a Costa after and stayed chatting if it was nice, so she slipped a fiver in the nifty pocket she found sewn into the waist. Just in case.