If there is something that never ceases to amaze me about Kevin, it is how much I laugh every time we meet.
Some eleven years on, with most founding members still present and intact, the conversation flows, the discussions are lively, and the spouses all take cover. Or absent themselves from proceedings.
Of course, the Black Book that contains the titles of all tomes we have read over this period - and comments, themselves cause for amusement as well - is testament to the range of authors and genres that have crossed our literary tastes. However, it is the banter that accompanies these meetings that is by far the most entertaining.
Take the last get together. We all descend upon the Botanical Artist's abode. Her husband has wisely taken refuge elsewhere (a 'Meet the Teacher' evening at the school certainly promised more discipline and less rude jokes) and her daughter was wise to us given past history.
Sat in the kitchen with a (gratefully received) glass of wine in my hand, the Doctor of Psychology looks at the food laid before her, opens her arms wide and declares, "Well, I've got the nipples!"
"Yes," retorts the Lovely Radiographer, "We know that, you don't have to flaunt them."
Not only are we going deaf, we are also reverting to teenage innuendo.
Thereafter followed a lively discussion around dementia and whether calling your own children by the wrong names qualified for this label. I am a fully paid up member in this regard, although I still sustain that it keeps them on their toes as they are never quite sure whether they should be sitting in the naughty corner or if they are doing time on their sibling's behalf. No matter. I have age on my side.
The conversation then veered by way of the two books we had read - both commendable, btw - to whether leftovers from dinner could be taken home if a clip box was provided (answer: yes, a true gourmet doggy bag), to fashion faux pas in Palma (think tent dresses and Jesus sandals and you get the idea), to lactose-free cheeses (apparently there is such a thing), renditions of various accents (the best being the broad Yorkshire farmer version by the Lovely Radiographer), to an amusing tale about spotting Len Goodman in the dry docks where the Titanic was built.
"I thought it was him from a distance but could not be quite sure. Then I realised there was a camera crew right behind me and I was in their way, as they must have been filming him for something," said Belfast Blonde.
"What did you do?" we all asked.
"Yelled 'Sevvvvveeeeeeen' at him, and moved on," she answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And the moral of the tale this time is that when other stories get in the way of a good book, you laugh so much that you forget to set the date for the next meeting. Yes indeedy.
Waiting for Kevin? We may be some time.